The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, flickering once, twice.

You don't remember walking in here. Don't remember turning the lock. Don't remember pressing your back against the cold tile.

But your hands are on the counter now, knuckles white, breath shallow.

And there it is.

Crimson against white. Too much. Too soon.

Your mind fumbles for a clinical term—threatened abortion, first trimester, vaginal bleeding, twelve weeks—the words feel foreign, like you're reading them from a chart that isn't yours.

Your reflection stares back at you. Pale. Wide-eyed.

The noise outside swells and recedes like a tide you can't quite reach.

And then, through it all, a knock.