---

The days passed quickly, each one feeling heavier than the last. I found myself retreating further into the comfort of my room, avoiding the world outside.

Mom was patient—gently checking in on me, never pushing, but I could see the worry etched into her face. I wanted to reassure her, to tell her I was okay, but the truth felt like a locked door I couldn't find the key to.

And then, there was something else. Something worse.

A nagging thought I couldn't shake.

I had missed my period.

It was still too soon to know for sure, but the possibility of being pregnant loomed over me like a storm cloud, dark and suffocating.

I didn't know how to process it. What would it mean for my life? For my future?

What if I was?

That afternoon, I sat curled up on my bed, staring at my journal, the pages blank, waiting for the words I couldn't say out loud.

I picked up my pen.

"I'm scared."

The words spilled onto the paper, and suddenly, I couldn't stop.

I wrote about the moment it happened, the chaos that followed, the shame, the fear. And then, almost without thinking, I wrote—

"What if I'm pregnant? I can't even take care of myself right now."

The pen shook in my hand.

Tears blurred the ink.

I felt like I was losing control, like this was a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

I didn't realize how much time had passed until my phone buzzed beside me.

**Jasmine: We're coming over.**

**Mia: No arguments. Open the door.**

I hesitated.

Part of me didn't want to see anyone—didn't want to deal with their worry, their questions.

But another part of me—the part that didn't want to be alone with my thoughts anymore—reached for my phone and typed back:

**Me: Okay.**

Fifteen minutes later, the familiar sound of Jasmine's impatient knock echoed through the house.

I shuffled to the door, opening it just enough to see their faces.

Mia's soft concern. Jasmine's barely-contained frustration.

And something else—something I hadn't realized I needed.

Relief.

Like they were just glad to see me.

Jasmine didn't even hesitate. "Okay, we're not doing this anymore." She pushed the door open wider, stepping inside before I could argue. "You've been avoiding us, and I get it, but you're not shutting us out. Not happening."

Mia followed, quieter, but no less determined. She set a bag of snacks on my desk like it was some kind of peace offering. "We figured you probably haven't eaten much. And even if you don't wanna talk, we're here."

I swallowed hard, stepping aside to let them in.

They settled onto my bed, waiting.

I sat down slowly, my hands twisting together in my lap.

I wanted to say something.

But the words felt too big.

Jasmine sighed. "Emily... please. You don't have to tell us everything. But at least tell us what's been going on."

I hesitated. Struggled.

And then—

"I think I might be pregnant."

The words came out before I could stop them.

Mia's breath hitched.

Jasmine's eyes widened.

The room fell into stunned silence.

Then—

"Wait, what?" Jasmine's voice was low, sharp with disbelief.

I felt my throat close up, but I forced myself to keep going. "I—I missed my period." My hands shook as I gripped the blanket beneath me. "I don't know for sure yet, but... I can't stop thinking about it."

Mia exhaled slowly, eyes filled with something I couldn't place. "Emily..."

I braced myself for the questions, the panic, the pity.

But instead, Jasmine took a steadying breath and said, "Okay."

I blinked. "Okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah. Okay. We can deal with this. We'll figure it out."

Mia placed a gentle hand over mine. "You don't have to go through this alone, Em. No matter what happens, we're here."

I felt my chest tighten.

Not from fear.

Not from panic.

But from relief.

That evening, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the flyer Mia had pulled out of her bag.

Survivors of Trauma Support Group – Tuesday & Thursday at 7PM.

Jasmine had nudged it toward me earlier. "You don't have to go alone. If you want, we'll wait outside for you."

I had stared at it for a long time, the words blurring together, my thoughts spiraling.

Now, as the clock ticked closer to seven, I felt my stomach twist with nerves.

I wasn't sure if I could do this.

But I wanted to try.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed my favorite sweater and walked downstairs.

Mom was in the kitchen, sipping tea when she saw me. Her eyes flicked to my coat, her brow furrowing slightly. "Going somewhere?"

I hesitated, then nodded. "I—I want to go to a support group."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh, Emily, that's... That's wonderful."

She stood, stepping closer. "Do you want me to go with you?"

I shook my head. "I think I need to do this alone."

Mom didn't push. She just wrapped me in a hug and whispered, "I'm so proud of you."

Mia and Jasmine waited outside while I stepped into the community center, my heart pounding.

The room was warm, welcoming. A circle of chairs. A few quiet conversations. A woman—probably the facilitator—smiling at me from across the room.

I exhaled shakily.

And then, for the first time, I spoke my truth.

"Hi. I'm Emily." My voice shook, but I pushed through. "This is my first time here."

"Welcome, Emily," the facilitator said, her voice soothing, steady. "You're in a safe space."

I wasn't ready to tell my full story. Not yet.

But I looked around the room, saw faces filled with quiet understanding.

As I sat in the circle, I kept my hands folded tightly in my lap, my fingers twisting together as the group began to share their stories.

Some spoke easily, their words flowing like water, as if they had told their story a hundred times before. Others hesitated, their voices trembling, but still, they spoke.

I listened, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

The stories were different—some had happened years ago, others more recent—but the emotions were all the same. Fear. Pain. Shame.

But also—

Strength.

A woman in her thirties talked about how long it took her to trust again, about the years she spent blaming herself before realizing that what happened wasn't her fault.

Another person—an older guy, maybe in his forties—talked about how the world tells men to just "get over it", but how trauma doesn't care about gender.

I listened. I nodded.

But I still couldn't speak.

Then—

A voice, small and hesitant, broke the silence.

"U-Um... I'm Ellie."

I turned my head toward the girl across the circle.

She looked older than me—maybe sixteen, seventeen at most. Her hands gripped the sleeves of her hoodie, her fingers tugging at the fabric like she wanted to disappear inside it.

Her eyes darted around the room before finally landing on the floor.

"I, uh..." She swallowed hard. "I've never talked about this before. Not really."

I froze.

I knew that feeling.

That fear.

That weight of having too much to say, but no idea how to say it.

Ellie took a shaky breath. "I just... I keep wondering if it even matters. If talking about it will change anything."

I clenched my hands tighter in my lap.

She was voicing every thought I'd been too afraid to admit.

The facilitator, a woman named Rebecca, nodded kindly. "It matters, Ellie. Whether you talk today or six months from now, your voice deserves to be heard."

Ellie gave a small, uncertain nod but didn't say anything else.

I wanted to tell her I understood.

I wanted to tell her I felt the same way.

But the words caught in my throat.

Instead, when Ellie finally lifted her gaze, our eyes met.

And without thinking—without even fully realizing what I was doing—I gave her a small, hesitant nod.

A silent, me too.

Her shoulders relaxed just slightly.

Maybe, like me, she wasn't ready to talk.

But maybe she needed to know she wasn't alone.

And in that moment, sitting in that circle of strangers, I realized—

Neither was I.

The group continued to share their stories, but my focus kept drifting back to Ellie.

She had barely spoken, but her words stuck with me.

"I keep wondering if it even matters."

I knew that feeling. The fear that no one would believe me. That talking about it would just make it more real.

But something about the way Ellie had looked at me—the hesitation, the doubt—I recognized it.

Because it was my own reflection.

And for the first time since stepping into this room, I felt something shift inside me.

I had come here just to listen. To sit in silence, to absorb the stories of others and pretend I wasn't just as broken as they were.

But Ellie had spoken.

Even though she was scared.

Even though she didn't know if she could.

And suddenly, I realized—

Maybe I could too.

Rebecca, the facilitator, glanced around the room, her expression warm and patient. "Would anyone else like to share?"

The room was quiet.

I could feel my pulse in my throat.

My heart pounded.

I opened my mouth.

No words came out.

My hands shook in my lap. I clenched them into fists, willing them to be still.

Ellie was staring at the floor again.

Like she wished she had said more.

Like she wished she had the courage to keep going.

I took a deep breath.

And then—before I could talk myself out of it—I heard my own voice, soft, hesitant.

"...I'm scared."

The words hung in the air, barely above a whisper.

I felt everyone's eyes on me. Not in a bad way. Not in a way that made me feel exposed.

Just waiting.

Just listening.

So I swallowed the lump in my throat and kept going.

"I don't know how to... move forward." My voice wobbled, but I didn't stop. "It's like, I keep waking up and expecting to feel normal again, but I don't. And I don't know if I ever will."

A woman across from me nodded in understanding. Someone else murmured, "I felt that way too."

I kept going, heart racing, hands trembling.

"I'm scared of what comes next. I don't know if I'll ever be able to tell my parents. I don't know if I'll ever feel like myself again." My voice cracked on the last word.

I bit my lip, trying to keep the tears from spilling over.

And then—

Ellie looked at me.

This time, she was the one nodding.

And I knew.

Even though I had only said a few words, even though I had barely scratched the surface—

It mattered.

I mattered.

And for the first time, I started to believe it.

Rebecca smiled, her expression kind and knowing. "Thank you for sharing, Emily. That was very brave."

Brave.

I didn't feel brave.

But as the conversation shifted, as others continued to share, I felt something else.

Something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Hope.

The meeting wrapped up slowly, people exchanging quiet words and soft smiles as they stood from their chairs. Some lingered, talking to each other like old friends. Others, like Ellie and me, moved cautiously, unsure of where to go from here.

I glanced at her one last time as I grabbed my coat. She was staring down at her sleeves, tugging on the fabric again, deep in thought.

I wanted to say something—anything.

Maybe thank you for helping me find the courage to speak.

Maybe you're not alone.

But the words stuck, and before I could find them, she turned and slipped out the door.

I let out a slow breath, gripping my coat tighter as I stepped into the cool evening air.

And there, waiting just outside, were Jasmine and Mia.

Jasmine was pacing, arms crossed over her chest like she had way too much energy and nowhere to put it. The second she saw me, she froze, her eyes narrowing like she was scanning for damage.

Mia, on the other hand, was leaning against a railing, watching calmly but carefully.

The moment I stepped closer, Jasmine pounced.

"Okay, spill."

I blinked. "What?"

Jasmine threw her arms in the air. "What do you mean 'what'? We've been standing out here for an hour, dying to know what happened in there. Did it help? Did it suck? Did you cry? Do we need to fight anyone? Why is your face doing that thing where you look all... emotional?"

Mia rolled her eyes. "Jas. Let her breathe."

I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. "It was... good."

Jasmine stared at me like I had just spoken a foreign language. "Good?"

Mia's expression softened. "You mean that?"

I hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I mean, it was hard. And scary. But I'm... I'm glad I went."

Jasmine crossed her arms, clearly not satisfied. "Okay, but did you talk? Or were you just sitting there the whole time, listening to sad people?"

Mia sighed heavily. "Jasmine, oh my gosh—"

"No, it's fine," I cut in, smiling slightly. "I actually... did talk. A little."

Jasmine's eyes widened. "Wait. You talked? Like, with words?"

I rolled my eyes. "That is how talking works."

Mia grinned. "Wow. Big moment."

Jasmine nodded seriously. "Okay, I'm proud. That takes guts."

I felt my chest tighten, but this time, it wasn't from fear or pain.

It was something else.

Something lighter.

"I told them I was scared," I admitted quietly. "And that I don't know what comes next. That I don't know if I'll ever feel normal again."

Jasmine's playful energy dimmed just slightly, but not in a bad way.

She just... looked at me.

Really looked at me.

"Em..." she murmured, her voice softer now. "That's huge."

Mia nodded. "Yeah. You did something really brave today."

I let out a slow breath. "I don't know if it was brave. I just... I needed to say it."

Jasmine nudged me with her elbow. "Same thing."

I smiled, and for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel forced.

As we walked toward the car, Jasmine suddenly spun on her heel, walking backward so she could face me.

"So, are you gonna go back?"

I hesitated.

Mia raised an eyebrow. "No pressure. Just... how do you feel about it?"

I thought about Ellie. About the moment our eyes met, about the small, silent me too.

I thought about my own voice, shaking but real.

I thought about the weight in my chest, the one that had been crushing me for weeks, and how, for the first time... it felt a little lighter.

"...Yeah."

Jasmine's face lit up. "Yeah? Like actually?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I think I want to go back."

Mia smiled. "Good."

Jasmine grinned. "I knew you'd be a therapy girl."

I laughed, shaking my head. "It's a support group, Jas."

"Same thing," she said, flipping her hair dramatically.

Mia sighed. "You have literally never been to either."

"Details."

I shook my head, smiling as they bickered, but deep down, I felt something new.

Something solid.

For weeks, I had felt like I was drowning.

Like I was alone in a sea of silence and fear.

But now?

Now, I had something to hold onto.

A group of people who understood.

A place where I could speak—when I was ready.

And two best friends who weren't going anywhere.

For the first time in weeks, I felt a little bit like myself again.

And for now—

That was enough.