College dorm floor that's all bed wetters. The same way you can indicate your preference for a single-gender or quiet floor, you can check a special box confirming you can't keep your sheets dry.
On move in day you see people's cases of pull-ups and diapers being toted in on carts, alongside their bags of clothes and knick-knacks. All the beds are already fitted with plastic sheets, even though you brought your own.
On the first night you wander into the lounge and find a group of people playing cards and getting to know each other. When you sit to join the group you notice a crinkly diaper waistband poking out of someone's pants. The girl across from you in the circle is wearing a crop top and the edge of a purple pull-up is just above her sweat pants. You're surprised they're already changed for bed, then jealous that you aren't.
There's a diaper pail in the communal bathroom. You seem to run out of toilet paper at a much slower rate than the other floors.
A few weeks in you realize you didn't reorder more diapers in time. No need to panic, your roommate has extras. They're a little much for you, with baby animals all over, but you have to admit they're more comfortable than yours. Maybe you'll get a pack like these next time.
You've made a little group that likes to get up early for breakfast before the dining hall gets busy. You can tell by the bulge and waddle your friend has as they shuffle through the line that they haven't changed yet.
You start putting your diaper on a little earlier every night. You realize you like the cushy dry feeling, one you never got to savor when you waited until the last possible minute before bed to change. Sometimes it's already a little damp before you've turned out your light and closed your eyes.
Finals roll around you head to the library for an all nighter. Friends from the floor and your roommate join too. No one makes a single bathroom trip the entire time.
The Softest Start (Morning on the Bedwetter Floor)
You wake to that now-familiar warmth, spreading low and thick beneath you, clinging in soft squishy folds. Your eyes blink open against the dim early morning light, filtering in through the curtains, and your first thought isnât the time or even what class you have todayâitâs the slow, gentle realization that your diaper is soggy. Again.
A sleepy smile curls at the corners of your mouth. Of course it is.
You donât sit up right away. Why would you? The crinkle of your blanket shifts as you stretch, and thereâs something oddly comforting about the way your thick overnight diaperâyour âbabyishâ ones, as you used to call them â clings between your legs. A pastel safari of smiling animals peeks out over the waistband of your pajama shorts, faded and slightly blurred from use, the prints almost tender now from how many nights youâve worn this brand.
You let your hand rest over the front, feeling the bulk. Definitely soaked. Not leaking, thoughâthankfully. The plastic sheet under your bedding might never see action with how reliable these things are.
Still, you've got a routine to stick to.
With a sigh, you swing your legs off the bed and stand, wincing just a little at the familiar squish and droop. The first step is always a shuffle, the padding forcing you into a slow waddle until it settles. You tug your pajama shorts up, but they barely do anything to hide the swollen shape. Not that it matters. Itâs not like anyone on this floor hasnât seen worse.
You pass by your roommateâs bedâalready empty. Â The bathroom lightâs already on, too. As you shuffle inside, your bare feet cool against the tile, the smell of powder, lotion, and faint ammonia greet you. The familiar scent of the floorâs shared morning ritual.
You slip your pajama shorts down and untape the diaper with a practiced sigh. The tapes give way with soft pops, and you ball it up neatly before tossing it into the corner pail. It lands with a padded thud among the others.
You glance in the mirror while washing your hands. Thereâs a ghostly imprint on your hips where the elastic left its mark. Your skin is still a little pink, a little soft. You pull out a pair of regular cotton panties from your drawerâplain and simple. They fit, sure, but they feel... wrong. Exposed. Paper-thin.
Thereâs no hugging bulk. No protective cushion. No rustling softness between your thighs. Just fabric, and skin, and the vague chill of being unpadded. You tug your jeans on, sighing at the rough way they sit. Theyâre almost too roomy now, ever since you started ordering that brand of thick nighttime diapers that bulked you out so well. Maybe youâre used to it. Maybe you miss it.
Maybe you donât want to admit how fast you reordered them.
You brush your teeth, still adjusting to the coolness of cotton against you. You hear someone come into the bathroom behind you, another dormmate padding softly pastâwearing a shirt and nothing else, thick pink pull-up on full display. They give you a sleepy nod, rubbing their eyes as they walk right past the row of stalls and lift the lid on the diaper pail. Another one changed.
And thenâfinallyâyou hear it: the flush of a toilet. Just one. A single stall, once, across the whole floor. It sounds almost... out of place.
You snort a little into your toothbrush.
You tuck your toothbrush away and glance once more in the mirror.
Everything about you looks normal. Jeans. Hoodie. Hair pulled up in a lazy bun. But under it all, you feel⌠wrong. Lighter. Colder. Cotton doesnât hug you the way your usual padding does. And the longer you go without it, the more you notice that absence like an itch behind your ribs.
You sigh again and step out into the hallway.
The dorm is quiet at this hour. But your floorâthe bedwetter floor, as itâs been lovingly nicknamedâalways has a few early risers. And itâs easy to tell whoâs up by the soft crinkles and heavy footfalls echoing off the walls.
You pass a guy from down the hall, shuffling toward the lounge. His pajama pants hang low in the back, pulled down by the soggy bulge pressing against the fabric. Every step makes a faint squish, and he doesnât even try to hide it. Just yawns, stretches, and scratches his belly on the way to the microwave.
You donât even blink anymore.
At the elevator, you catch the sound of slippers behind youâquick, light, but with a familiar plastic-y undertone. You turn as Ellie, the same girl from the bathroom, jogs up with a bright smile.
âHey! Wait up!â
Her hoodie is oversized, sleeves bunched at the wrists, but the hem of her skirt barely covers her thighs. She bends to tie her shoe, and you immediately see it: the band of lavender stretching across her hips, the soft puff of her pull-up pressing beneath the fabric. When she stands again, the skirt flutters just enough to flash it again.
She doesnât seem to notice. Or care.
âMorning,â she chirps, pressing the elevator button. âYou coming to breakfast?â
âYeah. Everyone else is already down there?â
âThink so. Mason said he was waiting for waffles, and Jules was âtesting the structural limits of her morning diaper.ââ She grins as she says it, air quotes and all.
You snort. âNice. I guess Iâm the only one not waddling down today.â
Ellie eyes your jeans. âYou changed?â
You nod.
âBoring,â she teases, bumping your arm.
âComfy.â
âCold.â
âDignified.â
She rolls her eyes. âWhatever helps you sleep dry at night. Oh waitâŚâ
The elevator doors open before you can hit her with a comeback.
