Page 139 of Babies for the Big Shot
I’ve done it with a broken heart, a broken printer, and, once memorably, a broken heel that snapped halfway through a pitch deck to a room of board members who all resembled the Monopoly man if he’d discovered crypto.
This should be easy.
But ten minutes pass and I’ve reread the same email five times. My brain keeps hiccuping. I try to update a client tracker and find myself staring at a blank cell, blinking wildly.
I shift in the chair, trying to find a position where my spine isn’t crying and my ribs aren’t arguing with the underwire that’s now compressing a solid third of my soul.
“Focus,” I whisper under my breath, dragging the cursor back to where I left off. I can feel my heartbeat in my gums.
Behind me, a laugh bubbles up from someone’s desk. Too loud.Tooclose.
“You think it’s true?” someone says.
Another voice answers, low and conspiratorial. “Come on. You’ve seen the way he looks at her.”
The air leaves my lungs and I deflate.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. The smile I plaster on is brittle, teeth clenched just tight enough to keep from cracking.
I minimize the spreadsheet. Open Slack. Start a message to myself just so I have somewhere to type.
Reminder: They don’t matter. You’re doing your job. You’re allowed to exist here.
It helps. For exactly seven seconds.
Then another message pings in from Courtney in Creative.
Hey! Can I ask you something? (Totally random lol)
No. No, you may not.
I don’t answer. I click out of the chat, shove away from my desk, and head toward the bathroom before I snap.
The restroom is blessedly empty. I lock the door, lean against the cool tile, and breathe.In, out. In, out.Hands braced on the sink.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. My face looks… the same. Mostly. A little paler. A little softer around the jaw. There’s a smudge of mascara under one eye and the beginnings of something that might turn into a second trimester glow if I squint hard enough.
I touch my stomach. It doesn’t feel real yet. Not entirely. I might as well be wearing a secret under my skin that the rest of the world is only just starting to notice, and I don’t get to control when or how they do.
I’m not used to being looked at in this way.
Not like I’m a person.
But a headline. A whisper.
A rumor wrapped in a cardigan and trying not to puke.
I don’t want to cry. I hate crying at work. Especially in public bathrooms with motion-sensor sinks that don’t care if you’re having a breakdown, they just blink their red eyes and dribble lukewarm water as if your tears aren’t their business.
So I dry my hands. Smooth down my hair. Open the door.
And keep walking.
Past the kitchen. Past the conference room. Past the hallway that smells of toner and overpriced lavender hand soap.
I duck into the stairwell, press my back to the cool wall, and pull out my phone. I scroll through my contacts, hesitating for exactly half a second before tapping Laura’s name.
She picks up on the second ring.
