Keeping It Fluid -35

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Walking into the station felt like stepping into a nightmare.

The air was cold and still, too quiet in some places, too loud in others. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that sterile, clinical brightness that made the world feel unreal.

It smelled like burnt coffee, paper, and something faintly metallic—like pennies and static.

Mom's hand rested firmly on my shoulder as we approached the front desk.

A woman in uniform looked up, her expression polite but guarded. Her eyes landed on me, and I felt exposed, like she could already see everything I didn't want to say.

"How can I help you?" she asked.

Mom squeezed my shoulder gently, a silent reminder: You're not alone.

I took a shaky breath, the words stuck to the inside of my throat like glue.

But then I forced them out.

"I need to report a sexual assault."

The words felt jagged. Like glass slicing through my voice.

The woman's entire demeanor shifted.

Her eyes softened. Her shoulders lowered just slightly.

"Okay, sweetheart," she said, standing. "Let's get you somewhere private."

She led us through a hallway, away from the echo of phones ringing and low voices and footsteps on tile. Each step made it more real.

We passed bulletin boards and closed doors, posters warning about scams and missing people.

And then we stopped outside a small office.

Inside, another officer waited—plain clothes, kind eyes, soft voice. A detective, probably.

He gestured toward a chair. "Have a seat, Emily."

Mom sat beside me. Her hand found mine again.

"You're safe here," the detective said gently. "There's no rush. Just tell us what happened when you're ready."

I looked at him.

Then at Mom.

Then at my hands, still trembling in my lap.

And slowly—terrified, ashamed, exhausted—I began to speak.

I told them everything.

About Trevor.

The park.

How I froze.

How I couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything except survive.

The detective didn't interrupt. He didn't rush. He just listened.

And when I finally finished, my voice hoarse, my hands clammy and cold, he nodded.

"Thank you," he said. "I know how hard that was."

But then his expression shifted—barely, but enough.

I felt the change before he even spoke.

"There's something I need to tell you," he began carefully. "We're going to take this seriously. We're going to document everything you've said. But... cases like this, without physical evidence or a witness, can be difficult to move forward with."

I blinked. "What do you mean?"

"We believe you," he said quickly. "That's not in question. But proving it—legally—it can be hard. Especially when the incident wasn't reported immediately."

The room suddenly felt colder.

"So what... nothing happens?" My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

"No," he said. "This is the start. We're going to file a report. We'll speak with the suspect. We'll see if there's anything else we can uncover. But I need you to understand... it's a process. And sometimes, it doesn't lead to charges."

I felt like the floor was dropping out from under me.

I'd done everything right. I'd come forward. I'd told the truth.

And still, it might not matter.

Mom's hand squeezed mine again, stronger now. Fierce.

"We're not giving up," she said.

The detective nodded. "No. We're not."

I didn't cry.

Not yet.

But I felt something break inside me—quietly.

I had spoken. I had done the hardest thing I'd ever done.

And still, justice wasn't guaranteed.

But I wasn't alone.

And that was something.

We were just leaving the station—me still feeling like I was walking through a fog—when the officer stopped us near the exit.

"Emily," he said gently, "before you go... we'd like you to be seen by a doctor. It's standard, but also important—for your health, and for the investigation, if you choose to move forward."

My breath caught.

A doctor.

It felt too soon.

Too real.

But Mom nodded beside me. "We'll go."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I just followed her out, my limbs stiff, my heartbeat still thudding in my ears.

~o~O~o~

Now, I was sitting in the doctor's office, staring at the walls, feeling sick all over again. The lights were too bright. The room was too quiet.

A nurse had already taken my blood pressure and weight. She was kind, but I could barely hear her over the static in my head.

Now I was just... waiting.

Waiting for the test.

Waiting for the results.

Waiting for someone else to say what I already knew.

Mom sat beside me, flipping through a magazine she clearly wasn't reading. Her fingers kept pausing on the same page. Her eyes hadn't moved in minutes.

The door opened with a soft click.

A woman in a white coat stepped inside—calm, kind, composed. She closed the door behind her, holding a slim folder in her hands.

She already knew. I could tell.

She sat across from me, folding her hands over the file like she was preparing to lower a curtain.

"Emily," she said, her voice gentle, "the test came back positive. You are pregnant."

The words didn't surprise me one bit.

If humans could read people minds, they would hear me sarcastically speaking. "Obviously!" But what I said out loud was just "Okay."

Mom reached over, gripping my hand without saying a word.

The doctor studied me for a moment. "I know this is a lot to process. But you have options. We can talk through each one whenever you're ready."

I nodded. "I... I think I need some time."

"Of course," she said, her voice steady. "There's no rush."

I took a slow, shaky breath, squeezing Mom's hand a little tighter.

I wasn't ready for any of this.

But at least now, I wasn't pretending anymore.

And maybe... that was a start.

They moved me into another room for an ultrasound.

I thought hearing the words "You are pregnant" would be the hardest part.

But I was wrong.

Now I was lying on a cold exam table, staring up at the ceiling tiles while a nurse prepped the machine beside me. Everything in the room smelled like antiseptic and latex.

The nurse was calm, middle-aged, warm in the way nurses usually are—gentle but distant, like she knew how to be kind without getting pulled in.

"Alright, Emily," she said, voice quiet. "We're just going to take a look and confirm how far along you are. This might feel a little cold, but it won't hurt."

I nodded stiffly, gripping the thin hospital blanket like it might hold me together.

Mom sat in the chair beside me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She hadn't said much since we left the first room—not out of anger, but out of restraint. Like she was afraid if she said the wrong thing, I'd shut down completely.

The nurse squeezed cool gel onto my stomach, and I flinched.

Not because of the temperature.

But because it made it real.

She pressed the probe against my skin, and the screen flickered to life beside me. For a second, all I saw was static and shadows, like storm clouds underwater.

And then—

"There," the nurse said softly. "That's your baby."

I stared at the screen, breath caught in my throat.

It was so small.

Just a flickering, bean-shaped shadow.

But it was real.

It was really there.

Mom exhaled sharply beside me, her hand moving to my shoulder.

I couldn't look at her.

Couldn't look away from the screen either.

The nurse adjusted the probe again, and then—

A sound filled the room.

Soft. Rhythmic. Repetitive.

It took me a second to register what it was.

A heartbeat.

A heartbeat that wasn't mine.

It was faint, but strong. Steady.

The nurse's voice was calm. "Would you like to hear it louder?"

I froze.

Did I?

My hands clenched tighter around the sides of the table, chest squeezing like I'd been caught underwater.

Mom must have seen it, because she spoke for me.

"I think she needs a minute."

The nurse nodded, lowering the volume slightly, but the heartbeat kept going—quiet but insistent.

I blinked fast, suddenly realizing my face was wet.

I hadn't even noticed I was crying until Mom pressed a tissue gently into my hand.

I stared at the screen, voice trembling. "It's... really there."

Mom's voice was low. "Yeah, sweetheart. It is."

The nurse finished her measurements, her voice returning to its quiet professionalism. "Based on the size," she said, "you're about eight weeks along."

Eight weeks.

Two months.

Two months of carrying this baby?

She handed me a few printed ultrasound images.

I didn't look at them.

Not yet.

I just held them in my lap, hands trembling.

Back inside the consultation room, I sat on the exam table, clutching the ultrasound pictures in my lap. The edges were already crinkled from how tightly I was holding them, but I still hadn't looked at them again.

Mom sat nearby, quiet, giving me space, but her presence was steady—unmoving.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Before I could even answer, it opened slowly, and the doctor stepped back in. She looked calm, composed, and compassionate all at once. A clipboard was tucked under one arm, and she took a moment to glance between me and my mom before quietly closing the door behind her.

"Hi again, Emily," she said gently, her tone careful, like she knew how close I was to shutting down. She pulled a chair up and sat down across from me, not too close, not too far. "I want to thank you for being open with us today. I know this has been a lot."

I nodded faintly, not trusting my voice just yet.

She waited a beat, then continued.

"If you choose to continue the pregnancy," she began, folding her hands gently in her lap, "you have a few different paths. You could choose to raise the baby yourself, or you could consider adoption."

My chest tightened immediately.

Raise a baby? Me?

I was fourteen.

The doctor must've seen the panic in my face, because she spoke again, her voice softer this time.

"If you choose to parent, you wouldn't be alone. There are support programs—financial help, medical care, even counseling and assistance to keep you in school. Many young mothers make it work, with the right support."

I swallowed hard, the idea still too big, too heavy to wrap my head around.

Mom stayed quiet, but I could feel her watching me.

I forced myself to ask the next question. "What about... adoption?"

The doctor nodded, clearly expecting it. "Adoption is also a legal and supported path. You'd have time to decide what kind of arrangement feels right—open, closed, or something in between. Some young mothers stay involved in their child's life through open adoption. Others choose not to."

My fingers curled tighter around the edges of the ultrasound images.

Every word she said was reasonable. Kind. Informative.

But all I could think was: I don't know how to do this. I don't even know how to be okay with this.

The doctor paused, then continued in the same calm tone.

"The other option is termination."

That word.

That weight.

My stomach turned.

She explained gently, "In Minnesota, abortion is legal, and as a minor, you don't need parental consent. If you choose this route, it's safest the earlier you are in your pregnancy. You're still within the window for both available procedures."

I looked down at my lap, trying to breathe through the pressure building in my chest.

I was eight weeks.

It didn't feel like a number anymore. It felt like a countdown.

"There are two methods," she continued. "A medication abortion, which involves taking two pills—one here, and one at home. Or an in-clinic procedure, done safely here or at a partnered clinic. You'd go home the same day."

I nodded slowly, numbly. Like maybe if I kept nodding, this would eventually feel less terrifying.

The doctor softened further. "You don't have to decide right now. And you don't have to decide alone. But we're here to walk you through any of these paths, whenever you're ready."

I finally looked up at her, and my voice came out small.

"What if I make the wrong choice?"

Her eyes didn't flinch.

"There's no wrong choice," she said. "Only what's right for you."

My vision blurred again, and I felt Mom's hand gently press against mine.

I didn't know the answer yet.

But I knew one thing—

I had to find it soon.

The ride home was quiet.

Mom didn't say anything until she parked in the driveway.

Even then, her voice was careful.

"Emily," she said gently, "how are you feeling?"

I stared down at the ultrasound pictures.

"I don't know."

It was the only honest thing I could say.

Mom reached out, brushing my hair back softly.

"You don't have to figure everything out right now," she said. "One step at a time."

I nodded, barely.

But inside, I knew the truth.

The clock was ticking.

And sooner or later, I was going to have to make a choice.

Dinner had been quiet.

Mom kept glancing at me across the table, like she was waiting for something. Dad sat beside her, focused on his plate, occasionally chiming in to comment on the roast. Lily was being her usual dramatic self, chewing with exaggerated motions like she was starring in a dinner-themed soap opera. And Sam... well, Sam had been watching me like a hawk for the past ten minutes.

I was doing my best to act normal. I'd barely touched my food, poking at my green beans like they held all the answers to my life.

That's when Lily dropped her fork and said, "So, Emily—when are you gonna tell us what's going on?"

I blinked. "Uh. What?"

She tilted her head and chewed with her mouth open. "Come on. You've been weird lately. Like... super weird. You don't eat. You look like you're gonna cry all the time. And Mom keeps looking at you like you're about to explode."

Sam snorted. "She's right. You're sketchy."

I choked on my water, coughing into my napkin.

Mom shot Lily a warning glare. "Lily, just eat your food."

But Lily—of course—ignored her. "What? I'm just saying! Something is definitely up. Are you running away to join a secret spy agency or something?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Oh my God, Lily."

But Lily's eyes widened with mock shock. "WAIT. Are you getting married?"

Sam spit out his drink. "WHAT?!"

My heart slammed into my chest.

"Lily, stop," I said, but my voice came out too sharp, too panicked.

And that was it.

That was the crack.

The panic inside me bubbled too fast, too loud—and before I could stop myself, before I could pull the words back—

I blurted it out.

"I'm pregnant, Lily. Not getting married."

Silence.

The entire table went still.

Lily's mouth dropped open. Sam froze, fork halfway to his mouth. Dad blinked like the sound hadn't quite registered yet.

And Mom—Mom closed her eyes like she'd just watched a car crash in slow motion.

I pressed a hand over my face. "I didn't mean to say that."

Sam dropped his fork. "Wait. WHAT?"

Lily shrieked, "YOU'RE PREGNANT?!"

I buried my face in my hands. "Oh my God."

Mom sighed and rubbed her temples. "Emily..."

Lily gasped again. "Wait, wait, wait. WHO—" She cut herself off, her voice rising again. "Oh no. Is it—?"

"Don't say it," I groaned.

Sam leaned in, eyes wide with dawning horror. "It's Trevor, isn't it?"

The air in the room shifted.

I didn't answer.

But I didn't have to.

Sam's face darkened. His shoulders tensed like he was ready to fight someone right there at the table. "I'll kill him."

"Sam," Mom said, sharp now. "No."

"NO. We're not just going to sit here! He hurt her! You all knew and didn't tell us?! Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Because I wasn't ready!" I snapped.

It came out too loud. Too raw.

Sam's expression cracked. His fists were clenched on the table, but he didn't move.

"I know you're angry," I said, my voice shaking, "but I couldn't say it. Not right away. I couldn't even think about it without wanting to throw up."

Sam looked like he wanted to argue—but then he saw the tears welling in my eyes.

His jaw flexed.

But he stayed quiet.

Lily, stunned, looked between all of us like she'd wandered into the wrong movie. "I... I don't even know what to say."

I wiped at my face, blinking fast. "Then don't say anything."

I pushed my chair back. The sound scraped across the floor.

"I'm done eating."

No one stopped me.

Not Mom. Not Dad. Not Sam. Not Lily.

I walked out of the kitchen and down the hallway to my room, closing the door behind me.

And for a long moment, I just stood there—one hand still on the doorknob, the other pressed flat to my chest.

The truth was out now.

All of it.

And I couldn't take it back.

I sat on my bed, wrapping my arms around my knees, trying to breathe, trying to calm down.

I had messed up.

Big time.

Now Sam and Lily knew.

Now it wasn't just a secret between me, Mom, and my best friends.

Now I was exposed.

A knock on my door made me flinch.

"Emily?" Mom's voice was quiet, cautious.

I didn't answer.

"I know this is a lot, sweetheart," she said gently. "But we're here for you. All of us."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I just... I need to be alone right now."

There was a pause. Then—"Okay."

Her footsteps faded down the hall.

I exhaled shakily, burying my face in my knees.

This secret... wasn't a secret anymore.

And sooner or later, I was going to have to deal with that.

Lily had been weirdly quiet since dinner.

Which was, honestly, terrifying.

Lily? Silent? That never happened.

Sam had stormed off from the table like he was about to go track Trevor down himself. Mom had stayed close, hovering like she was afraid I might fall apart at any second. Dad said almost nothing, just stared at the table like he couldn't believe what he'd just heard.

But Lily?

She'd just stared at me, like her brain was working overtime.

And I had no idea what she was thinking.

Which was almost worse than yelling.

Around 8 PM, another knock hit my door.

I sighed, not looking up. "Mom, I said I needed time."

"It's not Mom."

I froze.

"...Come in."

The door creaked open, and Lily peeked inside.

Her usual loud, dramatic energy was muted—arms folded, expression unreadable.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

For a moment, she didn't say anything.

Then, "So... when were you gonna tell me?"

I winced. "Lily—"

"I mean, really," she said, her voice sharp. "I hear that Jasmine and Mia knew before me."

I bit my lip. "I didn't know how to tell you."

She scoffed. "Yeah. Clearly."

I exhaled, trying to keep my voice even. "Lily, it's not like I was hiding it from you specifically—"

"You were hiding it from everyone, Emily."

I flinched at that.

Her voice cracked, just a little. "I'm your sister."

That hit me harder than I expected.

"I didn't want you to worry," I whispered.

She blinked. Then shook her head, frustrated. "That's so dumb."

I frowned. "Excuse me?"

She threw her arms up. "You think not telling me makes me worry less? Like, seriously? What world does that make sense in?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

"...Fair point."

Lily crossed her arms again. "You don't have to tell me everything. But you don't get to decide I can't handle things just because I'm younger."

Guilt twisted in my stomach.

"I'm sorry, Lily," I said softly.

She gave a firm nod. "Good. Because now, I've decided something."

I narrowed my eyes. "What now?"

"I'm helping," she said.

I blinked. "You're what?"

"I'm helping you." She said it like she was volunteering for a group project. "End of story."

"Lily," I groaned. "This isn't a school assignment."

She shrugged. "Still helping."

"You don't even know what that means."

She grinned. "Not yet. But I will."

I rolled my eyes. "You're unbelievable."

She started pacing. "Okay, so. First—Trevor? Not getting away with this. Second—Sam? Not allowed to commit murder, no matter how mad he is. Third—" She paused, gesturing dramatically. "You? Not allowed to shut me out anymore."

I couldn't help the small smile that tugged at my lips. "That's... a lot of rules."

She grinned proudly. "I'm very organized in times of crisis."

"Apparently."

Lily turned like she was going to keep pacing, and that's when her eyes landed on something beside my bed.

She tilted her head, then slowly walked over and picked up a small stack of glossy paper.

My heart stopped.

The ultrasound pictures.

I'd forgotten to put them away.

She stared at them in silence.

Her expression shifted—no jokes, no teasing.

Just quiet.

"Is this...?" she asked softly.

I nodded, my throat tight. "Yeah."

She studied the image like it was something sacred.

Her voice came out small. "It's so tiny."

I nodded again. "Eight weeks."

Lily's eyes shimmered, but she blinked quickly and handed them back.

"I didn't expect it to feel... real," she said. "But it is."

"Yeah," I whispered. "It really is."

She sat beside me on the bed, this time closer.

No jokes.

No drama.

Just Lily.

My sister.

"I still don't know what I can actually do," she admitted. "But I want to do something."

I squeezed her hand. "Just being here helps."

She smiled faintly. "Okay. Good."

Then she leaned against me, her head on my shoulder.