Ethan.
I let it ring.
Then a text comes through.
Ethan: Please answer. I just want to know you’re okay.
That almost does it.
I type“I’m home. I’m fine.”and delete it. Fine isn’t true, and I won’t start lying now just to make someone else feel better. I set the phone face down on the coffee table and focus on keeping my breathing even.
The panic doesn’t leave.
It shifts, sharpens, turns into something more physical and less abstract, and that’s when a different thought breaks through the noise.
My stomach still hurts.
Not nausea exactly, but pressure, a deep, unsettled ache that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with my body doing something I didn’t authorize.
I stand and walk to the bathroom, then stop halfway there.
My calendar.
I open it on my phone, scrolling past meetings and deadlines and reminders I’ve learned to live by, then I find what I’m looking for. Or what I’m not looking for.
I’m late.
Not by a day. Not by the vague margin I can usually talk myself out of worrying about. Late enough that my chest tightens again, and this time it’s not panic. It’s recognition.
I’ve missed periods before. Stress. Travel. Hormones being annoying. I’ve always had a reason ready, and I’ve always been right.
This feels different.
I sit on the edge of the bed and press my palms flat against the mattress, trying to think in straight lines. Timing flashes through my head whether I invite it or not. Ethan. The intensity. The way my body responded without hesitation. All the times I used a preventive measure before and afterward, but there’s always a risk.
I swallow hard.
“Okay,” I say out loud, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel. “Okay.”
I don’t spiral. I don’t sit there imagining outcomes or consequences. I do what I’ve always done when things go sideways.
I act.
I grab my bag, shove my wallet and keys inside, and leave the apartment again without bothering to change clothes. The pharmacy on the corner is bright and aggressively calm, the kind of place that pretends everything is manageable if you buy the right product.
I walk straight to the aisle without hesitating, which tells me I already know what I’m doing.
The boxes blur together for a second. Different brands. Different promises. Early detection. Digital. Non-digital. Pink lines. Words. I grab one at random, then stop and put it back, then grab a different one that looks simpler, more direct.
I don’t need bells and whistles. I need an answer.
At the register, I avoid the cashier’s eyes out of habit, even though she couldn’t possibly know what this means to me. The bag feels too light in my hand when I leave.
The walk home is worse.
Every sensation feels louder. The street noise grates. The smell of food from a nearby restaurant makes my stomach roll again. I keep my pace steady and my head down, reminding myself that I don’t know anything yet, and knowing is the only thing that matters right now.
My phone buzzes again.
