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Star.

I couldn't get over how swollen and full my breasts had become. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and stared in awe at how my bosom spilled over my 32 B, black lace Lasenza bra. If they could see me now, I laughed to myself. All the times I had been made fun of in school, for having a “madan laban” chest. Or a chest so often compared to a football field. Hah! Look at me now. 20 years old and feeling my sexiest. 

I did a little twirl and admired myself for a moment longer just to feed the narcissist in me, before I ran my fingers down my neck and into the little gap my cleavage allowed. It did hurt, being trapped in my bra all day long, so I reached behind and unclasped it. Out sprung my girls, heavy and free at last. I dared not touch them, in fear of ruining what I was looking at. 

But I did eventually, and my hands cupped them gently before tugging on my nipples to hold them up. I knew something was odd when I realized how sensitive they were today. They weren’t too happy with my intrusion. Was it about to be that time of month? I couldn't recall. I had to check. By then I could tell the soreness wasn't solely the bra’s fault. 

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We’d been driving around for quite a bit now, and I could feel my hand going numb from clutching too hard. He was being him, singing along to the radio and pestering me about where we’d be going to eat, not really expecting an answer from me. He parks on the side of the road and I try hard not to make eye contact. I had practiced this a few times, and yet here I am, lost for words and sweating beads. 

Just as he reaches for the door, I almost scream in his face for him to stop. He’s taken aback and looks at me in anger. He doesn’t like it when I yell, and I do yell very often. Before he can say anything, I lift my clutched hand, open it up and fling it at him. It drops straight into his lap. He's searching my face for an explanation and I try to give him one. But all I can manage at that point, were tears and incomprehensible word salad. 

We’ve been in the car for at least an hour now, and neither one of us has spoken. He breaks the silence by saying we’d do what I wanted to do. It would be my decision and he would support me a hundred percent. I look at him like he’s stupid, like he’s completely lost his mind. I didn't need to hear that. I needed to be told what to do. I needed some kind of direction. I didn't want this on my shoulders. 

I’d never seen him cry before. 

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There is no bump, no physical evidence of what my body is going through. I wonder why they call it morning sickness, when you’re easily blowing chunks every other minute of the day. What lies!

 I find myself craving ‘puchka’ a lot. The taste of the tamarind water, hell, I could drink that and only that to survive at this point.

He’s good to me, allowing me this time to make a decision. I’m way too young. To be honest, I was one of the girls that could never understand girls my age having children. There are always other options, there are ways out. Now, I sit here in the same predicament and realizing there really isn't. There is no other option. Your heart doesn't allow you to even fathom ‘that’ way out. 

I’m about 6 weeks in and my hands have permanently attached themselves to my stomach. Constantly caressing, constantly speaking to it. I’ve been playing with names in my head. ‘Star’ for a girl and ‘Kyan’ for a boy. My whole world now revolves around a peanut sized being inside me. I am feeling emotions I never knew existed. I’m also crying constantly. I’m sad, for I know this can never be. I’m lying to myself and to it. I hate calling it, it. But it can never be, and so it shall remain an it. 

The day came when we could no longer delay. We both knew I was far from ready. I would be a terrible mother, although I had no doubt in my mind how amazing a father he would be. When I called him to let him know of my decision, I couldn't read his voice. No hint of relief or disappointment. I never could tell how he was feeling. He promised to be right over so we could make arrangements and do the needful. I hung up and cried and cried and cried some more. 

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I know girls who've done this. I know of girls my age who’ve also chosen not to. The pros and cons outweigh each other. This was a personal decision, this was about me. And that is how I chose to convince myself that what I was doing was the right thing to do. I wouldn't be able to give it the world it deserves. I would have nothing to offer but my own flaws and shortcomings. I was in some ways, no less than a child myself. He was only just getting into the swing of things with his career. This would be an obstacle to him, whether or not he admitted it. This would hamper everything he'd ever worked towards. And I was not going to do that to him. 

I barely even talk to him anymore. None of this is his fault. He had not forced me to make this decision. In fact he couldn't have been a better partner during a time like this. I hate him for it. I hate him for reasons I know not. I hate him for smiling to keep me strong. I hate him for being strong. I wished him weak and fragile and unstable. I hated him. 

I was making the right decision, picking the lesser of two evils. Then why do I wake soaked in a pillow of tears every morning? Why do I sleep short of breath from the sobbing? Why do I feel this pang of guilt every time I bathe and see my naked self in the mirror? Why do I wish I were dead so I didn't have to be in this situation? Why do I hate myself for what I'm about to do? 

I find myself constantly apologizing to it, constantly comforting and preparing it for its decided future. No future. I’m so sorry. 

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I woke up from a dream so vivid I was able to narrate it to him as I ranted on the phone.

She smiled up at me as I held her in my arms and I saw him in her eyes. I was flooded with so much love, it was overwhelming. Her smile faded not once as I felt her tiny fingers grab hold of my hair and pull. She was so happy. She’d been alive for not more than a few minutes and she was so happy. Star was beautiful too. Big brown eyes and her father’s nose. A head full of jet black hair just as my mother had once told me I had as a baby. 

It wasn't just a dream, it was an answer. I was keeping her. There were no tears today. I had long conversations with her all morning long, telling her all about my life. Most of all I filled her in on what a good man her father was. I wanted her to know him and love him. I almost felt sad for him. He wasn't getting all this time with her. He wasn't able to know her in the way I was knowing her. Silly thoughts like these I spoke to her of. 

He showed up almost with a skip in his step. He was smiling too and it’s funny but it wasn't just me waiting at the door for him anymore. Star and I stood there, welcoming him into our little bubble. We embraced for a long time as the three of us prepared for the rest of our lives. No words were needed. 

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Today would be a big day. Today I would be telling my parents. I had practiced all night. I knew my parents would be disappointed intially but I also knew once they calmed down, I would have their support. I was far too happy at this point for even their anger to sway me. I was so focused on what Star was doing to me that nobody could have taken that away from me. It was like falling in love all over again for the very first time. Only the butterflies you feel in your tummy, for me, was Star saying hello. 

The hours of the day moved slowly as I waited for my parents to come home from work. Pacing around the house was all I could do to keep myself composed. And finally, at a quarter past six, I heard the car in the driveway. My heart beating out of my chest and all the hairs on the back of my neck standing, I took a deep breath and told Star she was going to be so loved. 

I find myself half running out of my room, as I cross the hallway towards the stairs. Excitement and fear both flooding my whole system, my hands shaking as I made my way to face my parents. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the picture frames hanging on the wall. Of my siblings and I laughing and being children. The last picture on the wall is one of Mummy and I, and she’s holding me the same way I held Star in my dream. I turn to get a closer look, basking in the memory I never had of that moment, and thats when it happened. 

I felt the carpet slip and fold underneath my feet, as I plummeted down the stairs, all the while desperately trying to grab hold of anything in my path. It was as though it was all happening in slow motion. My eyes rolling back, as I held on to my belly for dear life. Reflex I guessed. 

It lasted for what felt like ages, before I ended up at the foot of the stairs, a horrible pain searing through my skull as I felt a huge bump begin to grow. I had hit my head against the banister and it was making me dizzy. So I stayed still for a few seconds trying not to move, one hand still on my belly. I manage to get myself up as I swayed slowly towards the kitchen. Having heard the loud noise, Mummy had rushed in. She was standing there, just about to say something but I stop her. I tell her I fell and I needed to sit down, but that I was gonna be fine. 

I led myself to a chair next to her and as soon as I slumped down into the cushion, I began to feel this warm wetness between my legs. I immediately realize I must have somehow cut myself and begin to undo my pants to check. Mummy stands frozen as she watches me trace the blood on my thighs to the inside of my cotton panties. 

Still not fully aware of what was happening, I am both trying to clean and calm myself. On any other day Mummy would have assumed I had lost track of my cycle and forgotten to wear a pad. What gave it away, was how I hadn't moved my hand from over my belly since I got up from the fall. I sat there in a pool of my own blood, now frantically trying to stop the bleeding, in vain. I’m crying now. My hand had not moved from holding Star, but the other was now cupping my privates in some kind of desperate attempt to undo what I know had just happened. I look over my shoulder and Mummy’s crying too. 

The bleeding lasted for hours, and for the first few, I curled myself into a ball in that chair and stayed in that position. Drenched in Star, I cried myself to sleep. 

I finally woke to him beside me, but without the courage to face him. I have been cleaned and changed; Mummy. I have been carried to bed; Him. The tears came fast, the sobbing came hard. I felt his hand reach for me as I turned away, not able to look him in the eye. What have I done? I slipped my hand underneath my shirt and over my belly one last time. I couldn't feel Star anymore. It was cold. So cold. 

It was the second time I’d ever heard him cry.

 

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