FALLING FOR MY GYNO

Episode 6-THE FIRST STEP

I walked to the cafeteria alone, the sound of my footsteps swallowed by the murmurs and laughter of students around me. Everyone else seemed to have somewhere to be, someone to laugh with, someone to love. But me? I was walking through campus with a secret growing inside me, and a loneliness so loud it echoed in my bones.

Mabel’s coldness still clung to me like a wet cloth. Her silence in class, the way she avoided my gaze — it was like being ghosted by someone who used to be your whole world. But I tried to shake it off. I needed to eat, needed something warm to quiet the nausea gnawing at my stomach.

But the moment I stepped into the cafeteria, the thick smell of fried oil, meat stew, and spices slammed into me like a truck. My stomach twisted. I staggered back, hand over my nose, bile rising in my throat.

“Oh no… not now,” I muttered, backing out of the doorway.

The sight of jollof rice, fried plantains, and sizzling meat that once brought me joy now felt like an attack. I didn’t wait. I turned around and hurried away, swallowing hard as I made my way out into the open air.

The breeze was my only relief. Each gust of wind cooled the feverish panic building in my chest. I took deep breaths, blinking back tears.

“Is this what morning sickness feels like?”

Fifteen minutes later, I was back in my tiny apartment — the one-bedroom I shared with silence, memories, and now, this tiny life growing inside me. I couldn’t bear to think of food, but I forced myself to boil noodles. I chopped vegetables slowly, like they might break if I moved too fast, and squeezed in a little lemon to calm my stomach. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

After a few bites, I opened my laptop and tried to focus on the architectural design assignment Professor Samson had given us. Usually, working with lines and balance brought me peace. But today, the lines wavered. My hand trembled on the pencil. The walls I drew felt hollow, much like me.

That nausea returned again — a wave crashing over me, dragging me under. I dropped the pencil and leaned back, pressing a hand against my belly.

“Maybe I should see a doctor,” I whispered.

I picked up my phone and searched.

Women’s clinics near me.

Tons of results. Some with bright pink logos and promises of care. Some too crowded. Some too clinical. But one name stood out like a beacon in the storm: BrightLife Women’s Health Center.

Their website was simple. Clean. Professional. Pictures of calm reception areas, warm smiles, and private rooms filled the screen. They offered everything from antenatal care to counseling.

I clicked Book Appointment. My hands were trembling. My heart beat like thunder in my ears. But still, I filled out the form.

Full Name: Anna Nwoke.

First-Trimester Consultation.

Preferred Time: 10:00 a.m. Tomorrow.

Email. Phone number. Submit.

A ping. Confirmation.

“So… I’m really doing this.”

I stared at the email like it was a letter from a future I hadn’t imagined for myself. I was going to the hospital. I was going to let someone confirm this wasn’t just a dream — or a nightmare.

A part of me was terrified. But another part… felt ready.

I walked to the mirror. My reflection looked tired. My eyes were puffy. My skin pale. But I touched my belly gently, like it might respond.

“I’m doing this for you.”

Tears welled up, not from fear this time, but from something close to hope. Maybe things would get harder. Maybe people would turn their backs. But I wouldn’t turn mine on this child.

> No matter what happened, tomorrow would be the first real step.

The first step into a future I didn’t plan for… But maybe, just maybe, the one I was meant for.