The fan hums overhead, a low, steady drone. The light flickers once, a pale fluorescent buzz that makes the shadows jump. Y/n sits on the edge of the tub, elbows on her knees, head bowed.

Three thin plastic sticks are lined up on the counter like a jury. Evidence. The first one was a fluke, she’d told herself. Cheap. Expired. Something. The second one was just to be sure. The third was because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Now, all three say the same thing.

She stares. The fan rattles. The clock on her phone screen ticks from 2:14 to 2:15. Her heart is a dull, heavy thud in her ears.

The lines are there. Faint on one. Darker on another. Undeniable on the last.

Her breath catches—not a gasp, not a sob. Just a pause. A full stop in the middle of a sentence she didn’t know she was reading.

Nine weeks of little excuses and half-answers crash into her all at once: the late periods blamed on stress, the nausea brushed off as anxiety, the jeans she’d stopped wearing instead of questioning why.

Her hand moves without thinking, pressing flat against her stomach. It feels no different. Soft. Familiar. A lie.

Her phone buzzes on the counter, the vibration skittering against the porcelain.

She stays where she is, alone on the bathroom floor, three tests staring back, and realizes that whatever her life looked like this morning, it’s already over.