That night, as I lay in bed, Lazarus's presence looms both comforting and suffocating. He breaks the silence, his voice a mix of hope and urgency. "Have you started your period?"
Frustrated, I snap back, "Stop asking, Lazarus! No, I haven't. But it's my body, remember?"
"Are you late?" His voice tightens, the undercurrent of need barely hidden.
Rolling my eyes, I retort, "My cycles are a mess, Lazarus. I don't track them like clockwork."
Undeterred, he reaches for a drawer, pulling out a pregnancy test. "Can you please just take this test?" he asks, pushing it towards me.
Annoyed yet resigned, I grab the test. "Fine, but this is the last time I'm discussing my period with you." He nods, a serious yet hopeful look in his eyes.
I lock myself in the bathroom, mumbling, "This is ridiculo
