Felt like a failure, staring at an empty space on a screen where a baby should be.
Cried some more.
Cried again, because why not?
Sat on the toilet with a blanket on and a cat in my lap, napping between cramps.
Scrubbed blood out of a bathtub, out of tiles, out of towels and underwear.
Ate potato chips.
Cried because I didn’t know what to have for breakfast.
Read pregnancy forums, obsessively.
Ran until I couldn’t breathe properly.
Yelled. At the medical receptionist, my sister, Netflix.
Apologised. For crying and yelling, and for my body not doing what it’s supposed to do.
Hoped. Waited. Cried. Repeat.
Asked my husband ‘Why can’t they just fucking stay in there?’.
Cleaned the house.