Late.

Read to the end for a link to the sequel

You want to talk about losing hope for a better future?

You want to talk about your body not being your own?

Do you know what it’s like to walk around with a sharp fist of despair sitting on your sternum?

Do you know what it’s like to suffocate on shame and fear?

I do.

*

It was a Monday morning, the first week of June, the last week of my freshman year, and I was late.

I was never late. Every month, day 27 or 28, in the morning. Five or six years out of a sum total of nineteen, perfect regularity.

I had thought I was late once before, earlier in the year. My boyfriend and I had got close—close enough that I was worried. I spent a night panicking and praying, swearing to God that I would never dishonor him again if he would give me one more chance. When I woke up to to the familiar bright red blood I was overjoyed. I went out into the snow and cold of February and ran laps on the indoor track, rejoicing in the familiar tug of cramps, thanking God for His mercies. Later, I realized I had miscounted. No matter. I was still blessed by the grace of God. Magical thinking is easier than logic.

But on this day in June, I knew that I had not miscounted.