It had been twenty-nine days since I last stepped foot in school.
Twenty-nine mornings of telling my mother, "I'm still not feeling well," before curling back under the blanket and pretending I couldn't hear her sighs.
Twenty-nine nights of my father knocking on my door, softly at first, then harder—"Eat, Winda"—as if rice and soup could fix the growing weight inside my body.
Twenty-nine sunrises where I hoped I might wake up and this whole thing would turn out to be a dream.
But dreams don't make your stomach bloat.
Dreams don't make your clothes tighter.
Dreams don't make your mother cry behind the bathroom door when she thinks you're asleep.
"Winda, honey," her voice came gently at first, but her eyes didn't match. They looked too wide. Too tired. "I need you to sit down."
I stood still.
"Please," she added, gesturing toward the worn sofa.
I didn't move until my father stepped into the living room, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.
That's when I sat. Slowly. Like a criminal before the judge.
Mom sat beside me, but Dad stood near the wall, watching.
"You've been sick too long," Mom started, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "It's not normal. The nausea, the fatigue, your… your face looks different."
I looked away.
"We love you, sayang, we're just—worried," she continued. "We went through your laundry. Some of your underthings had… stains."
My throat dried instantly.
"You sleep so much," Dad added. "You avoid food that used to be your favorite. Your body… Winda, your body is changing."
He sounded desperate. Not angry. Not yet. Just scared. As if I were slipping into something they couldn't reach.
I said nothing.
"Just take the test," Mom whispered. "If it's negative, we'll drop it. We'll take you to a doctor, see what's wrong. But if it's not…"
She placed the test kit on the table in front of me.
A single, lifeless box.
It might as well have been a ticking bomb.
The bathroom mirror was foggy, but I could still see enough.
I stared at myself. Pale. Hollow. My school ID still pinned to the corner of the mirror like a ghost of who I was.
I took the test with trembling hands, waited in silence, and watched as the two red lines appeared.
Like a scar. Like a warning. Like proof of my shame.
Mom's cry wasn't loud. It was strangled, like something trying to escape her chest but failing. She sank into the sofa, covering her mouth with her hand.
Dad didn't speak.
He just stood up and walked into the kitchen. A moment later I heard the clang of metal against tile—he'd dropped a plate. Probably the one he was gripping too tightly.
I sat on the floor, staring at my knees.
"What happened?" Mom finally said between hiccupping sobs. "Was it someone from school? A friend? Did someone do this to you?"
Her voice shook. "Tell us. Please."
"I don't want to talk about it," I muttered.
"We're your parents!"
"Then why do I feel like I'm on trial?!"
Dad stormed back in. "You don't get to act like the victim here!"
"I am the victim!" I yelled back.
He pointed a trembling finger at me. "Then tell us who he is! What's his name? Winda—tell us!"
I stood. "No."
He stepped closer. "You're protecting him?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You'd rather protect some bastard than be honest with your own family?"
"I'M NOT READY!" I screamed, and the silence that followed was heavier than any sound.
Mom clutched her chest. "We need to fix this. It's not too late. We can go to a clinic. There are… procedures."
I shook my head. "No. I'm not killing it."
"You don't even know what you're doing!" Dad shouted.
"I know enough to know it's mine," I snapped.
He turned away and dragged his hand down his face. "You're throwing your life away."
"I didn't ask for this life."
That night I locked myself in my room.
I curled into a ball beneath the blanket, staring at the faint outline of the pregnancy test I'd shoved in my drawer.
They were still fighting in the other room. My mother sobbing, my father pacing. Sometimes their voices blurred into white noise, and sometimes I heard my name.
Over and over again, like a curse. Like a prayer.
And then—
Knock knock.
I froze.
It wasn't my father's knock. Too soft. Too calm.
I sat up slowly.
Another knock.
"…Winda?" a quiet voice said from behind the door.
Familiar. Steady. Almost bored. But not cold.
It was Alifah.
"Here," she said. "I brought your notes. It's the seventh week. Midterms are soon."
I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say.
She didn't say anything else either. Just… waited a second. Then I heard the soft slide of paper beneath the door.
And footsteps walking away.
—Sometimes, the loudest comfort is the one that doesn't ask questions.