text: The steaming kettle whistled on the stovetop and Mallory shuttered, jumping at the sudden sound breaking the noise barrier in her kitchen. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The large wall clock clanged back and forth amongst the silence in her apartment, the anxiety in her chest beating with each sounding. It felt as if the ticks and tocks were inside of her heart. However, what was truly in her heart was something much deeper. A secret. Mallory was pregnant. She didn't understand: how could something that so many people find exciting become her own tragedy? She was barely even twenty-two, and she was in this alone. Her boyfriend left the second the suspicion even arose. He didn't even wait around for her to take a test. He wasn't there by her side when she found out. He didn’t even really know. In fact, nobody knew. That was, yet, anyway. She had invited her three closest friends to come over for dinner to finally break her three-month silence As she stood in her kitchen preparing her best fettuccine alfredo, she couldn't help but reach down and touch her stomach. Life. A new one. One that wasn't tainted by the troubles of the world. One that didn’t even know if they were a boy or a girl yet. One that knew nothing but the blissful warmth and quiet of the womb. Mallory had been imagining this conversation all week, planning out what to say, who to make eye contact with first, what syllables to enunciate, and whether she should let her tears out or fake a smile as always. She knew she wasn’t showing yet, but mentally her bump felt huge. She felt like a balloon walking around, wearing a sign that screamed “Look at me! I got knocked up!” She was embarrassed, honestly. How was she supposed to look at three people she’d known since she was fourteen and tell them what she’d let happen? Should she make a joke? “So, I guess you’re all wondering why I’ve been refusing drinks, huh?” No. That’s not the way to introduce a child’s conception. Should she start a game of charades? “Two words. I’m pregnant.” No. She never was good at that game. Jenna would probably guess ‘I’m fat and turn the night into a pep talk for the wrong topic. No matter what form of announcement Mallory thought of, there always seemed to be an alternative outcome. The only effective thing she felt she could do is just say it out loud, verbatim, and direct. “I’m three months pregnant.” She turned around and looked herself in the eye using her magnetic fridge mirror. “I’m three months pregnant.”, she repeated. Over and over again, Mallory said the four words until her voice didn’t even sound like her own anymore. Over and over until she didn’t even recognize the pair of eyes staring back at her. The same pair of eyes that her child would inherit. The same pair of eyes that she would look into once again in six months, but hopefully that time she’d see love and joy inside of them instead of pain and fear. The oven dinged and she walked back over to it. Wait, was she even allowed to use the oven? Everything felt wrong. Everything felt dangerous. She didn’t know how she would support the new life inside of her, but she knew that she wanted to protect it. As she put on her oven mitt, she caught herself imagining it was a bathing mitt just like the one she would be using in six short months to cleanse the soft and perfect flesh of her newborn. It was little moments like those that made Mallory smile to imagine, but every time she found herself feeling the slightest excitement about becoming a mother, she forced herself to remember her circumstance. Then, she’d frown and her eyes would well up with tears again. The alfredo was done and now all that was left was to wait for her friends to let her know they were on the way so she could prepare fresh salads for them all. They were carpooling. Mallory loved carpooling, riding around with her friends all night, and singing at the top of their lungs with their sunroof open. Just another thing that was coming to an end. She knew she’d never experience a night like that again after becoming a single mother. How could she? She had no help lined up, no family that would be willing to babysit for her. She’d be lucky to even find enough time to be able to work a job. It was moments like these that made her regret everything, even getting into a relationship with Mark at all, let alone falling pregnant with his child, full of knowledge that he had no intentions of parenting them. At least it wasn’t twins, like Olivia and Allen. The time was five twelve, and everyone was scheduled to arrive around the five thirty mark. Mallory made her way to the counter and picked up her phone. No texts from anyone saying they were on the way. Did they already know she was pregnant? Was the abandonment already starting? She couldn’t and wouldn't even blame them. She honestly had no plans of bothering them with any requests for help after she gave birth anyway. She wanted the group of twenty-somethings to enjoy their youth while they could. After all, they weren’t the ones who went out and created a new life--she was. Mallory was torn between messaging them and asking about their ETA and leaving them alone. If they came, they came, and if not, hey, she still wouldn’t be alone. She let three more minutes pass and finally picked up the phone again. As she sat down on the couch she decided on her strategy. A call, she thought, would ease her anxieties more. Less waiting for a response, plus she’d be able to hear the tone of the voice she was speaking to. Allen was probably the driver and Jenna always gave calm responses, so the decision of who to call fell onto Olivia. She picked up on the second ring. “Yeah! We’re two blocks away and traffic is pretty slow, so we should actually arrive in about five minutes if coming a little early is okay!”. Mallory told her that was ‘perfect’, even though right now the concept of perfect felt so foreign to her, and thanked them all again over the phone for agreeing to come. Then, she hung up and held her stomach as she walked back into the kitchen to prepare their salads. She looked at the clock one more time and regained awareness of the sound of the hands. Five seventeen. She focused on her breathing and heartbeat as she cut up tomatoes. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.