TAMPONS
VIYANA SINCLAIR
I cleaned myself and stepped out of the restroom, my movements slow, careful. The house felt quieter now—too quiet. I checked my pockets out of habit and let out a hollow breath.
Not a single penny.
I closed my eyes, exhaled, then forced my feet to move.
He was sitting on his bed, back against the wall, a book in his hands. Calm. Composed. As if my world hadn’t just collapsed into a thousand tiny humiliations.
I stood at the door and knocked lightly.
He looked up.
“Can you… do me a favour?” I asked, hesitantly.
The words tasted wrong. Weak. I hated how small my voice sounded. I hated how my chest felt tight, like I was begging.
Embarrassment crawled up my skin, hot and suffocating.
He didn’t answer.
He simply averted his gaze and went back to reading.
I closed my eyes, jaw clenching as fury surged up, sharp and familiar.
Calm, Viyana.
I inhaled deeply.
He’s a nurse. This is medical. This is not weakness.
I opened my eyes again, straightened my spine, and spoke—clearer this time, stripped of pride but not dignity.
“I want sanitary napkins.”
The room fell silent.
He didn’t laugh.
Didn’t mock.
Didn’t look uncomfortable.
He slowly closed the book.
He stood up and walked toward me.
I didn’t move.
My body refused to obey, as if fear and exhaustion had glued my feet to the floor. He stopped a step away, close enough for me to notice the tired lines under his eyes, close enough for my pulse to spike for no reason at all.
Then he sighed—long, heavy, carrying things unsaid.
And walked out of the house.
The door closed behind him.
I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My shoulders sagged. Relief washed over me in a quiet, shaky wave. I turned and sat down on the edge of the bed—
—and jolted back up instantly.
No. No no no.
Panic shot through me as I stared at the mattress, white and clean.
I stepped back, hands clenched at my sides, standing there awkwardly.
This house was full of rules I didn’t know.
This body was betraying me at the worst possible time.
And I—who once ruled boardrooms and bent people to my will—was now afraid of staining a stranger’s mattress with my periods.
I hugged my arms around myself and waited.
After a few minutes—or maybe longer—he came back.
The door opened softly. I turned instantly.
There was a paper bag in his hand.
Relief rushed through me so fast my knees almost gave way. I walked toward him without thinking, hope lighting up my chest for the first time that evening.
He placed the bag on the table.
“Sanitary napkins weren’t available,” he said calmly. “That shop is out of stock. So I bought tampons.”
The word hit me like a slap.
Tampons.
I froze.
My fingers slowly reached into the bag and pulled one out. Small. Wrapped. Innocent-looking. And yet—terrifying.
My throat tightened.
“I—I don’t use tampons,” I said quietly, staring at it like it might bite me. “I’ve never used them.”
I swallowed hard.
I was scared of them. Always had been. Pads were safe. Familiar. Predictable. This—this was unknown territory.
I lifted my eyes to him, discomfort written all over my face despite my attempt to mask it. “I’m a pad girl,” I added, almost defensively, as if that explained everything.
I clutched the tampon tighter, anxiety coiling in my stomach along with the cramps.
My eyes burned.
I didn’t want him to see me like this—confused, scared, stripped of every ounce of control I had ever carried like armor. Before he could say anything more, I grabbed the paper bag and my phone and rushed to the restroom.
I locked the door behind me.
The click echoed louder than it should have.
I leaned my forehead against the door, shoulders trembling as I tried to breathe properly. My fingers tightened around the bag.
What am I supposed to do now?
I slowly opened it again, pulling one tampon out, staring at it like it was written in a language I didn’t understand. My heart thudded painfully.
I don’t know how to use this.
The realization hit harder than hunger. Harder than poverty. Harder than sleeping on the floor.
A tear slipped out before I could stop it.
I wiped it away quickly, angrily—like tears were another weakness I couldn’t afford. But my chest felt hollow, echoing.
I had always been surrounded by people. Staff. Drivers. Assistants. Doctors on call. Help was never something I asked for—it arrived before I needed it.
Now I was alone.
Locked inside a small bathroom, holding something I was afraid of, with no money, no comfort, no control.
Helpless.
Abandoned.
I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, phone glowing uselessly in my hand.
I dragged my hand down my face, wiping away sweat and tears that refused to stop. My breathing was uneven, shallow. I unlocked my phone with trembling fingers and typed the words I never imagined I’d have to search myself.
How to use a tampon.
A video loaded.
A woman’s calm, confident voice filled the small restroom.
“Wash your hands. Get comfortable—either squatting or sitting on the toilet. Insert the tampon toward your lower back. Push it in until your fingers touch your body. Remove the applicator. The string must remain outside. Change it every four to eight hours to avoid infections.”
Each word landed heavier than the last.
Insert it.
My hands started shaking harder.
“Oh my god,” I whispered, my throat tightening painfully.
The phone slipped slightly in my grip as my chest rose and fell too fast. This wasn’t just fear—it was panic. I had faced boardrooms full of men twice my age without blinking. I had crushed people with a single sentence.
But this?
This terrified me.
Tears spilled again, hot and uncontrollable, blurring the screen. I wiped them angrily, but more followed, dropping onto my hands.
Why does this feel so hard?
Why am I so scared?
I want Vihaan.
Right now.
Beside me.
The thought hit me so hard my chest ached.
Vihaan would know what to do. He always did.
He would knock on the door without asking, complain about the smell of the restroom, shove a packet of pads into my hand, and call me stupid for crying.
Then he’d sit outside, back against the door, guarding it like the world might fall apart if he moved.
I wiped my tears again, rough this time, angry at myself for letting them fall so easily.
“I’m fine,” I whispered, even though no one was there to hear it.
But the words sounded hollow, like they didn’t believe me either.
My phone screen dimmed in my hand.
I inhaled slowly.
Exhaled.
You’ve survived worse, I told myself.
You can survive this too.
Still… I wished Vihaan was here. Just for a minute. Just to remind me that I wasn’t as alone as I felt.
I stood up, splashed cold water on my face, and stared at my reflection for a second longer than I should have. My eyes were red, swollen, unfamiliar. I wiped my cheeks, took a shaky breath, and walked out of the room.
He wasn’t there.
My heart sank as I checked his room next. Empty. Too quiet. I let out a tired sigh and slid down onto the floor beside my suitcase, my back resting against the bed.
“What am I supposed to do now…” I murmured.
My hands moved without thinking as I unzipped the suitcase. Clothes stared back at me, neatly folded, useless. Then my fingers paused on a soft cotton kurti. Light. Clean. Safe.
I knew this was wrong.
I knew I shouldn’t.
But I didn’t know what else to do.
My lips trembled as I brought the fabric closer, my eyes blurring again.
With a sharp tug of my teeth, I tore into it.
The sound made my chest tighten, but I didn’t stop.
I tore off a large piece, my hands shaking, then folded it carefully—once, twice, again—trying to make it neat, trying to make it enough.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, not sure if I was apologizing to the kurti or to myself.
I walked to the restroom again and slid off my pant and then my panty. I kept the folded cloth in place like a pad, adjusted it carefully, and wore my pants back. After washing my hands, I came out.
The house felt too quiet. I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next, my body heavy and my head throbbing. Every step felt slower than usual. I went back to the room and sat on the edge of the bed, making sure I kept my distance, just in case.
I hugged my knees to my chest and stared at the floor.
This wasn’t how I imagined my life would be—not this helpless, not this lonely.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe evenly.
Crying wouldn’t solve anything.
The burning sun suddenly disappeared, and a dusty wind began to blow.
The windows rattled violently before I rushed forward and shut them, my hands trembling.
A thunderclap tore through the sky, loud and sudden.
I flinched at the sound and hurried back, sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress.
I picked up my phone and scrolled aimlessly, not really reading anything. Another rumble echoed outside, softer this time but still heavy. I shifted my position again, then again, unable to get comfortable with the folded cloth. It felt wrong, awkward, a constant reminder of how unprepared I was.
I pressed my lips together and leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. The air felt thick, my body weak, my patience thinner than ever. Every few minutes, I adjusted myself, hoping it would somehow feel normal. It didn’t.
Outside, the wind howled like it was angry at the world. Inside, I felt the same.
Suddenly, I heard the creaking of the door. I stood up at once and rushed forward, only to see him stepping inside, drenched from head to toe. Water dripped from his hair, a few strands stuck to his forehead, and his T-shirt clung uncomfortably to his body.
He shut the door behind him and stood there for a second. His T-shirt looked oddly swollen, like he was hiding something underneath. Without saying a word, he lifted it slightly and pulled out a paper bag, now crumpled and damp around the edges.
He noticed my gaze and, of course, chose violence in the simplest way possible—he tossed the bag at me like he was throwing a ball. I caught it instinctively and peeked inside.
Sanitary napkins.
A grin broke out on my face before I could stop it. Relief rushed through me so fast I felt light-headed. I was on cloud nine. If this were any other moment, I would’ve jumped, danced, maybe even thanked the universe out loud.
I didn’t waste a second.
I ran straight to the washroom, discarded the folded cloth into the dustbin, and fixed the pad properly. Only then did I finally breathe out, the tension draining from my body.
I stood there for a moment longer, letting the quiet settle inside me. The ache was still there, dull and persistent, but the panic had loosened its grip. Relief wrapped around me like a thin blanket—fragile, but warm enough to breathe.
When I stepped out, the room smelled faintly of rain and damp concrete. He was standing near the window, towel slung over his shoulder, rainwater dripping onto the floor. The storm outside raged like it had something personal against the world—thunder cracking, rain lashing the earth without mercy.
Neither of us spoke.
I clutched the paper bag to my chest like it was something precious, something earned. Gratitude sat on my tongue, heavy and unfamiliar, but pride kept it locked behind my teeth. I moved past him, slow and careful, and sat on the floor.
The wind howled again. The lights flickered once, twice, then steadied.
He turned away, as if my presence made the air awkward, and went back to what he was doing—wringing water out of his towel, busying himself with anything.