CHAPTER 46
It started with a wave of nausea.
Not the kind you brush off after a bad meal or too much coffee. This one curled deep in my stomach, hot and uneasy, with the kind of heaviness that stuck around like it had a reason.
I pressed my palm to my belly as I leaned against the sink, eyes locked on the slow drip of the faucet. My mouth tasted metallic. My head swam. And for the third time that week, the smell of onions frying downstairs made me gag.
It wasn’t stress. It wasn’t fear. It was something else.
Something… cellular.
That’s when it hit me.
I hadn’t kept track of my period in weeks. No—months. My calendar had become a mess of scribbled names, locations, encrypted file paths, and emergency contacts. There was no room for dates or cycles or self-care. But now, standing here
