Genya was on the floor, back against the worn sofa, legs stretched out. A half-eaten bowl of instant ramen sat on the coffee table, steam still rising in lazy spirals. He was fiddling with the frayed edge of a band t-shirt—black, with a faded green insignia—staring at the TV, where a nature documentary was mid-scene of a lioness licking her cub.

Your hand rested on your lower stomach. The familiar, dull ache was beginning to pulse there, a slow, persistent drumbeat. The air in the apartment suddenly felt too heavy, the colors of the sunset too sharp. The lioness on screen finished her lick, and a wave of something—unnameable, prickling—rose in your chest.

The lioness cub on screen tumbled over its own paws. The sound it made—a small, high-pitched bleat—was the most pathetic thing you'd ever heard. Your eyes stung.