Oh God. What if I’m pregnant?
***
The city hums around me like it always does—horns and footsteps and distant subway clatter—but I feel like I’m moving through it on mute. Like everything’s underwater. Or like I’m dreaming and the world forgot to follow the laws of gravity.
At least I have the day off today—thank God for that.
The corner bodega is just two blocks away. I tell myself it’s not a big deal. People do this every day. It’s just a test.
Still, my palms are damp by the time I reach for the cool metal handle and slip inside.
Inside it smells like dusty coffee grounds, fried empanadas, and that faint tinge of disinfectant that clings to every New York convenience store. I nod politely at the guy behind the counter and make a beeline for the pharmacy aisle.
Act casual.
I toss a pack of gum into my basket. Then a travel-sized dry shampoo. A chocolate bar I don’t even want.
When I reach for the test, my hand hovers. There are too many options. One promises accuracy five days early. Another boasts "easy-to-read digital results" in bold pink letters. I grab two different brands and bury them under the dry shampoo.
As I turn the corner, something—or someone at the edge my vision—makes me pause.
A man stands at the end of the aisle. Suit jacket flawless, grey hair cut crisp. He turns the corner and is out of my sight in a second. His back was to me, but something in the tilt of his shoulders, the set of his jaw, felt… familiar.
No. Can’t be.
I blink hard, trying to shake it off. Clutching the basket tighter, I head toward the front.
The cashier scans my items without a word, but the second the test slides across the scanner, his eyes flick up. Just a flick, but it’s enough.
I feel my cheeks burn.
He doesn’t say anything, bless him, but the weight of that silent look makes me want to melt into the grimy tile floor.
I shove my card into the reader too fast, grab the bag the second it’s handed over, and mutter a thank you that comes out more like a cough.
Back on the sidewalk, I exhale sharply.
The little paper bag crinkles against my palm, light as air and heavy as a bomb.
I don’t run. But I walk fast. Eyes on the pavement. Mind spiraling.
Please don’t be. Please don’t be.
But the truth is, I’m not sure what I’m hoping for anymore.
Back home, I set the test on the edge of the bathroom sink like it’s made of glass. My fingers are trembling, my breath shallow. I flip the instructions over just to have something to do with my hands, but I’ve already read them three times. Still—control the variables. Double-check the window. The lines. The wait time.
Three minutes.
Three. Whole. Minutes.
I set the timer on my phone, but the second I do, I can’t bear to watch the countdown. I abandon it on the bathroom counter and walk out into the living room, wrapping my arms around myself.
I should sit down.
I should pace.
I should call someone.
