Ethan.
Then a message.
Ethan: I’m not trying to crowd you. I just need to know you’re safe.
I don’t answer, even though my heart is breaking for him and us. If what I’m suspecting is true, I need to go before my ex can catch up with us.
I unlock my door, step inside, and lock it behind me with care. The apartment is quiet. I set the pharmacy bag on the counter and stare at it like it might change shape if I wait long enough.
My hands shake as I pull the box out.
I don’t open it yet.
I lean back against the counter, close my eyes, and let myself feel the weight of the moment settle into my bones. Whatever comes next is going to change things. I know that with a certainty that has nothing to do with fear.
Finally, I open my eyes, pick up the box, and walk toward the bathroom. I sit on the closed toilet lid and read the instructions twice, then a third time slower, not out of confusion but out of a need to stay anchored to something procedural. Step one. Steptwo. Timing matters. Results window matters. Everything else can wait.
The bathroom light feels too bright, so I turn it down and leave the door half open. I don’t want to feel boxed in. I don’t want to feel like I’m hiding, even though that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I take the test out of the packaging and set it on the counter, lining it up parallel to the edge like order might calm me. My phone buzzes again in the other room. I ignore it without checking the screen.
I follow the steps. I wash my hands first, which isn’t required but feels right. I breathe through my nose and focus on the mechanics of it, the way I always do when emotions start climbing faster than my brain can keep up.
When I’m done, I cap the test and set it face down on the counter, just like the instructions say. I set a timer on my phone for three minutes, then immediately regret it and flip the phone screen-down again so I don’t watch the seconds tick by.
Three minutes is nothing.
Three minutes is everything.
I perch on the edge of the tub and press my palms flat against the porcelain, grounding myself in the cold. My foot taps once then stills when I notice it happening. I don’t pace. I don’t cry. I don’t spiral into a list of outcomes.
I think about practical things instead.
Timing. Calendar math. The pharmacy receipt still in my pocket. The fact that I threw up earlier and wrote it off as stress. The way my body has felt slightly off for days, not sick, just unfamiliar.
My stomach flips again, and I swallow hard.
I tell myself I’m being dramatic. I tell myself I’ve been wrong before. I tell myself this is just a data point, not a verdict.
The timer goes off.
The sound is too loud in the small space. I reach for the phone and shut it off immediately, then sit there for a beat longer than necessary, staring at the counter like it might rearrange itself if I give it time.
I stand slowly.
I pick up the test.
I turn it over.
For a split second, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing. It’s just shapes. Color. Lines that don’t mean anything until they do.
Then it clicks.
Positive.
My breath leaves my body in one sharp rush, and I have to grab the counter to stay upright. The room doesn’t spin, but something inside me does, a quiet, internal shift that rearranges everything without asking.
I stare at the result longer than I need to, like it might change if I look hard enough. It doesn’t. It stays exactly the same.
