Opal

I shouldn’t have bought so much. The bag was digging into my shoulder, heavy with glue sticks, safety scissors, and way too many sheets of construction paper—more than I’d need, probably. But the kids always go through the good colors first, and I hate having to say, “Sorry, no more pink.” I hugged the haul close to my chest, cradling it more out of habit than necessity. It helped mask my shape. I told myself that every time.

The rain came suddenly—fat, warm drops that struck the pavement with a kind of sleepy finality. I darted under the awning, nearly slipping on the wet concrete, my shoes squelching faintly. The shop was closed, the lights inside long dead. I stood there, watching the street blur behind the curtain of rain, the smell of damp stone rising around me. And that’s when I felt it.

That warmth. That ache. No, no, not now.

I clutched the bag tighter, trying to press it subtly to my chest. I could already feel the pads beginning to saturate. Maybe they’d hold. Maybe no one would notice. My top—why did I wear white today?—was clinging faintly at the hem. I glanced down, saw the faintest bloom starting. My throat tightened. I could wait it out, I told myself. Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. Or I could make a run for it, pretend it was just the rain—

Someone passed. Steady steps. An umbrella. I looked up—just a silhouette, just the soft rhythm of someone moving through the world without a second thought. My mouth was dry. My heart was hammering. But something in me cracked open with the need not to be alone in that moment. I raised my voice, just enough to be heard over the rain. "Um—excuse me…?" My fingers curled tighter around the bag. "Do you… maybe have room for one more?"