Chapter 5
NOELLE
The nausea comes in waves.
Not the sharp, fleeting kind that makes you wince and move on but in slow, relentless tides that rise from somewhere deep inside and leave me clutching the edge of the sink, praying it’ll pass.
It’s either food poisoning, a stomach bug, or just nerves.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
But no matter what, deep down, I know this is different.
It’s a quiet unease that settles beneath my ribs and stays there, rolling in and out like a second heartbeat.
Morning, night, in the middle of class, halfway through brushing my teeth, it doesn’t care about timing.
It hits when it wants, and all I can do is grit my teeth and wait for the wave to crash and ebb again.
At first, I pretend it’s nothing.
Final’s stress, I tell myself. Too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Greasy mess hall food that’s finally catching up to me.
Maybe a flu that’s been circulating around the dorms.
It’s easy to invent reasons when you’re desperate not to face the real one. Easy to tell yourself stories that sound rational and manageable. Fixable.
Because stories are easier than admitting what your body already knows.
But as the weeks drag on, the excuses get harder to believe.
The fatigue clings no matter how many hours I sleep like a heavy fog I can’t shake. I stop recognizing myself in the mirror.
There are dark crescents under my eyes, and my skin feels too tight.
My reflection becomes a stranger.
The circles under my eyes look like bruises, my cheeks have lost their color.
My skin feels too tight like I’m living in someone else’s body.
I start skipping meals not because I mean to but because nothing tastes right. Sometimes when I brush my teeth in the morning, I have to grip the edge of the sink just to keep from getting sick.
I buy the test later that night, intentionally picking the cheapest box from the pharmacy with my hands stuffed in my pockets the entire time, praying no one from campus recognizes me.
The walk back to the dorm feels endless, every step heavier than the last.
By the time I get to my room, it’s well past midnight.
I wait until I’m sure everyone’s asleep before I slip inside one of the bathroom stalls, barefoot, clutching the box like it might explode.
The tiles are freezing under my feet.
My hands shake as I tear the wrapper open.
The little plastic stick looks so harmless, too small to hold the weight of what it might tell me. I tell myself it won’t matter, that I’m overreacting.
That the timing, the exhaustion, the nausea…it’s all just stress. Just bad food.
Just anything else.
But when I finally use the test, wait the three minutes, and look down, all that denial collapses.
Two pink lines. Bright, bold, and unforgiving.
Pregnant.
I sit on the floor next to the toilet for a long time, knees drawn up to my chest as I keep staring at the little lines that seem like a guillotine hanging over my head.
I want to cry but the tears won’t come yet. The hum of the lights overhead fills the silence, and for the first time since taking the test, I realize I’m shaking.
For days after that, I move through life like a ghost wearing my own skin.
I go to class, I take notes I can’t comprehend, I laugh at a joke my brain can’t compute, I stop by the grocery store and pick up things I can’t bring myself to eat, I wave at classmates in the hall and smile when they smile back.
From the outside, I look completely fine but inside I’m screaming.
The same thoughts loop over and over until my brain feels raw: What do I do? What will people think? What if Dad finds out? What if they all find out?
Every version of those questions ends in disaster.
Every imagined outcome makes my chest tighten until I can’t breathe.
I start avoiding calls from home, telling myself I’ll call Dad back when I’m ready, when I’ve made a decision for myself.
I tell myself I’ll figure it out, just not today.
A week passes before I finally do something.
I search online for clinics in town.
My hand trembles on the mouse as I scroll through the options, the words on the screen blurring in front of me: free consultation, confidential appointment, support services.
God. It all sounds so sterile.
So detached.
I book an appointment anyway and tell no one.
The secret sits heavy in my chest, too fragile and too raw to speak about.
When the day comes, I sit in the waiting room with my hands knotted together and eyes fixed on the clock.
Other women sit nearby, some alone, some with partners.
A girl across from me keeps biting her nails down to the nail beds, her leg bouncing uncontrollably.
When the nurse calls my name, my body moves automatically.
The hallway stretches ahead, bright and sterile, every footstep echoing against the linoleum like I’m marching toward something final.
Inside the exam room, the paper on the table crinkles as I sit down. I stare at the sink in the corner, at the small metal tray laid out beside it, each instrument lined up with precision.
Everything feels too clean, too clinical, too detached from the chaos inside my chest.
My pulse is beating so hard it feels like it’s lodged in my throat, every beat echoing in my ears.
When the door opens, the doctor steps in.
She’s in her mid-forties and has kind eyes and a practiced tone.
She smiles gently as she sits and asks me questions about my medical history, reading from the tablet in her hand.
Her voice is even, almost soothing, but it doesn’t reach me.
The words come in fragments, like I’m underwater.
“How far along…”
“…procedure is safe…”
“…it’s just a pill, you’ll be awake…”
They clang against each other in my skull until I can’t tell which one hurts more.
I nod when she pauses, but I don’t know what I’m agreeing to.
My vision’s tunneling, narrowing down to the edges of the paper under me that I’ve somehow managed to bunch in my fists.
My knuckles ache from gripping it.
My heart’s hammering so violently I think I might be sick.
Then suddenly, I can’t.
It hits me like a punch to the chest, sharp and certain.
I can’t do this.
I press a hand against my stomach—barely a curve, nothing visible yet—but it’s like my body is trying to tell me what my brain refuses to accept.
The doctor is still talking, outlining steps, timing, aftercare, but her voice fades into static.
I shake my head before I even realize I’m doing it.
“I—I need a minute,” I manage to say.
She pauses, studying me quietly. “Of course. Take all the time you need. I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”
When she leaves, the door clicks shut behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I stare at the floor until it blurs.
My fingers are trembling, my chest tight with something too big to name—fear, grief, guilt, love, all tangled together.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
I wasn’t supposed to feel this way.
I came here to end it…to take control and fix what has already spiraled out of my hands.
But now that I’m here, sitting on this cold table, surrounded by the hum of fluorescent lights and medical equipment, all I can think about is a future I had no idea I ever wanted.
One with tiny hands, sleepy mornings, and a laugh that might sound a little like mine.
Or maybe theirs.
The paper rustles violently as I stand, my knees weak.
The door feels miles away, but somehow I make it through it, out into the hall, out past the receptionist’s sympathetic smile that I can’t return.
The air hits me like a slap.
It’s sharp and biting, slicing through my lungs and waking me up all at once.
The city moves around me in blurs of motion with cars honking, people brushing past me, snippets of conversation.
Everything is loud, chaotic, alive, and I feel like I’m falling apart in the middle of it.
I stumble until I find a patch of brick to lean against, the rough surface biting into my shoulder through my coat.
The scent of cinnamon and balsam wraps around me.
Across the way is a small park with trees decorated in blinking lights, beyond that a small skating rink with a couple looping hand-in-hand around it.
My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop my phone when I pull it out. And just like that, the tears break free.
I scroll through my contacts, searching for something steady, something safe.
My thumb hesitates only for a second before it taps on Dad.
He answers, his voice warm but tired. “Hey, kiddo. Everything alright? Thought you’d be in class by now. You playing hooky?”
“No,” I choke out, my voice a wreck. “No, it’s not.”
“What’s the matter, honey?”
I press a hand over my mouth, trying to hold in a sob that still escapes anyway. “Dad, I—I messed up. I don’t know what to do.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end, then the faint rustle of him moving, maybe standing, his voice cutting sharper with concern. “Noelle? Slow down, honey. What’s going on?”
The brick wall feels cold against the back of my head as I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against it.
How do I tell him?
How do I tell him the truth without tearing everything apart?
I can’t tell him about the night, about them, about the way my world spun out of control in the span of a single evening and then continued until they had to leave.
He’d never look at me the same.
Hell, I would be surprised if he didn’t disown me.
So I tell him part of it. Enough to make him understand without giving him the truth that would destroy him. “It was…a hookup…a mistake. And now I’m…I’m pregnant.”
The pause that follows feels endless.
In reality, it’s probably only a few seconds—maybe even less—but it stretches until it feels like hours, days, centuries.
I can hear my own ragged breathing through the receiver, the wet hitch of my sobs cutting through static.
Somewhere behind me, a car horn blares, a sign of life continuing like the world isn’t crumbling around them like it is for me.
His voice softens immediately. “Oh, kiddo.”