It isn’t glamorous, but it’s stable, and stability is my current personality.
I’m almost seventeen weeks. I know the exact number because once you’ve seen that little line appear, your brain turns into a spreadsheet whether you like it or not. Some mornings I wake up and I’m calm about it, and other mornings I wake up and I stare at the ceiling and do the math again like the answer might change if I run it twice.
At the office today, by noon, I’ve convinced myself I’m fine, and by one, my body proves I’m a liar.
I’m halfway through a vendor reconciliation when the room narrows, my hearing dulls, and my hands go cold, so I grip the edge of my desk and pretend it’s normal because pretending buys you time.
Malik—the senior analyst, office manager, and my friend—catches it anyway.
He appears at the corner of my desk with his brows drawn and his voice stripped of jokes. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” I say, because I always say that first.
“You’re not.” His eyes drop to my knuckles where they’re white against the laminate. “Sit.”
“I just need water,” I insist, and I try to straighten up, but the tilt gets worse.
“Lila,” he says, sharper, and he points at my chair. “Now.”
I sit, and I hate the relief.
He crouches a little, not in my space, but close enough to keep me from trying to stand again. “You pregnant?”
“Yes,” I admit.
His jaw tightens then relaxes. “Okay. We’re not doing whatever tough-girl thing you’re about to do, and you’re not walking home. I’m taking you to Saint Mercy.”
“I don’t need the hospital,” I say, but my voice is thin.
“You almost passed out at your desk,” he replies. “I’m not letting you fall in the street.”
“I’ll call a cab.”
“You’ll call a cab and then you’ll tell the cab you’re fine, and then you’ll faint in the lobby of your building and crack your head,” Malik says, then he exhales like he’s annoyed at himself for being this invested. “Grab your bag.”
I open my mouth to argue, but my stomach turns and my vision tunnels again, so I close it and do what he says because my pride doesn’t get a vote when my knees feel unreliable.
He walks me out with one hand hovering near my elbow without grabbing, and it’s the kind of restraint that makes me trust him more, which is irritating.
In the car, Malik drives fast without driving stupid, and he keeps glancing over like he’s checking I’m still upright.
“I’m okay,” I say.
“You’re not allowed to say that for the rest of the day,” he replies. “Save your energy.”
I press my forehead to the cool window and breathe until we pull up to Saint Mercy, then Malik kills the engine and gets around to my side before I can pretend I don’t need help.
“I can walk,” I say.
“Good,” he answers. “Do it slowly.”
We make it through the doors. The lobby smells like disinfectant and coffee, the lights are too bright, and my body is already tired.
Malik leans toward intake. “She’s dizzy, she’s pregnant, she almost fainted at work.”
The receptionist starts asking questions, and I try to focus on the words, on the process, on anything that isn’t the rising pressure in my chest.
My ears fill with a soft rush, my hands go numb, and my vision collapses down to a narrow strip.
