weightless
she tells herself that it’s fine.
that she will be fine. ( even if her skin is cold and her head is pounding and her fingers are ghastly white. ) that everything is fine. ( even if it’s to be expected that she’s overdue, that it’s irregular, that her body feels strange and foreign and her rhythm is in shambles. ) that this is normal, ordinary, a side-effect she’d expected, researched, and prepared for.
she’s being stupid. overdramatic. thinking irrationally — is that a consequence, too? — over something everyone’s always said would happen. yet she can’t help but think that she’s done something wrong, that even she — infamous for her meticulousness and attention to detail — she had erred, misstepped in a calculation somehow.
so she checks. the numbers add up. she’d taken all the pills correctly, so far. same time too; 10 o’ clock at night on the dot, for full effect. she hadn’t fucked up, she’d done everything correctly, so she is so fucking fine.
two seconds go by and her fingers are still ivory white and she really can’t stand the what if? that has perched itself over her head. she’s not fine, she’s not. she needs to know.
( to: baby boy ) it’s late. ( to: baby boy ) i’m probably fine though. ( to: baby boy ) right? ( to: baby boy ) they say it’s normal for periods not to come at all with birth control so i’m fine. ( to: baby boy ) say i’m fine.
because she’s not in a position to say that she’s fine when her head is telling her otherwise and her brain is working overdrive to imagine alternative, awful scenarios. and she’s always trusted park yuri — if she can trust him for anything — to never tell her a lie.
@yfxyuri
