She twiddled with the open and worn top flap of the small and pink skeletal box. Tapping and grazing her long nails on the squeaky plastic across the printed mass of big and undersized words, she continued to pinch and pull at the now tearing flap. Her tired eyes glazed past the tiny white letters, having memorized the awkward instructions and dutifully reminiscing on following the said uncomfortable procedures. Her heart pounded and her stomach recoiled at the sight of the package. Sighing, she flattened the carton down on the counter and brushed it away.

Her hand then fidgeted and all but tore apart her red hair, testing its tangible limits by twisting, yanking, raking, and gnawing on the bunch. Her legs screamed at her to move and she merely complied, stretching her long legs to touch the cold marble floor of the bathroom.

She paced to and fro restlessly across the confined room--from the handle of the locked door to the edge of the porcelain tub, the lidded toilet, to the stretches of the white wall and finally, the sink. Her bare foot carried her wordlessly, but inside she was a hair away from bursting into hellfire.

She heaved and huffed a painstaking sigh at her bangs and scrambled to the sink table. She snatched the white stick from the counter edge and clutched it close to her shaking chest before shutting her eyes. She felt her heart thudding against her ribcage and swallowed, hard.

Oh, hell.

Dragging on another labored sigh, she slowly raised the stick to her face before peeking open an eye. Her brown eyes both widened and honed in on the small circle.

It was empty. Blank. . White.

What the--?

She glanced at the wall clock for the billionth time: 2:23 A.M. One minute. It had only been one, bloody, agonizing, nerve-wracking minute when it literally felt like eons, an eternity, a hellhole of infinity and beyond.

Frowning and releasing an exasperated groan, she placed the stick down and sprawled on the sink. Turning on the faucet, she splashed her face repeatedly with ice cold water and remained stagnant, angry and on the near verge of tears.

She felt another familiar wave of vertigo assault her senses and she refrained from hauling over to hug the toilet bowl. It was disconcerting how fast the tides came and went. Her head and heart pounded and her cheeks flushed with nauseating heat. She bit her lower lip and breathed in deep through her nostrils, careful to push down the urge to barf. Her body trembled vigorously and she wasn't sure if it was from anxiety or just pure frustration.

Shutting off the water, Park Bom lifted her aching head to stare into her reflection. Red, bloodshot eyes stared equally back, standing far off from the pale canvas of her face. Her usual donned hair was unkempt, a whirlwind of knots and breakage.  

Miserable couldn't begin to describe her state.

Bom knew something was up when one faithful morning her eyes and body jackknifed as the inbred impulse to vomit no, hurl, confiscated her body. She barely made it to the bathroom. Her stomach had disturbed her all day, beginning at the crack of dawn to hours past midnight. It had felt enormously queasy, like she had just stepped off a roller coaster-- only she hadn't. It was on incessant repeat. Then she had thrown up. Again and again. The bile had burned and made her stomach boil with smoldering uneasiness.

She felt awful and at even mere thought of corn, her angel heaven's delight, made her home in for the toilet. Hunger was a rare, very rare, commodity these days. Her head spun and casts of dizzy spells came in random surges. Her muscles ached and cramps on her lower back abdomen became ever more frequent and irate. Her suspicions skyrocketed when she had come to a solid realization that she had missed her period. It had been four weeks since then.

At first she dismissed it as her substantial weight loss, but as days ticked by, her fingers itched with curiosity and soon found herself on her laptop, windows open with at least ten different med-related tabs. She scanned blogs for hours on end, scaring herself less with horror stories and testimonies of different women with neverheardofdiseasewhatthehellnames stating her similar symptoms. When she finally had enough, her eyes then landed on the most horrifying and yet painfully obvious answer.

She had slammed the laptop shut then---utterly mortified. Park Bom scurried away to her bedroom and pulled the covers up to her eyes and unsuccessfully tried to sleep.

Nononononononononononononono!

Absolutely not.

No way.

It was impossible. 

But now as she impatiently stood, staring at the hot pink box with big, black, bold letters advertisting "E.P.T." she knew it was suddenly becoming very real. It was a definite possibility. She shivered. She pictured her warm bed-- inviting and so utterly delicious to the sleep-deprived and dismal woman outstretched on the confines of the bitter and cold bathroom.

She then pictured her husband, and how she wanted nothing more than to snuggle against him, against his broad chest and emanating warmth. She thought of his slow side smile and deep, rumbling voice and sighed, forlorn.

He knew something was wrong-- as always. He knew the instant he found her that morning crying quietly in the bathroom, feeling and looking dreadful crumpled on the restroom ground. He had known as he pulled her in his protective embrace, murmuring soft words of comfort and massaging her lower back as she had her death-grip on the basin. Since then his concerned and weary dark eyes followed her every movement, hovering closely, silently watching and ready to step in on moment’s notice.  

So naturally, she avoided him. She had been--the entire week. And she knew it wouldn't be long before his patience would run dangerously thin. She couldn’t torture him any longer and nor would he idly stand by. She couldn't mentally or physically bear the 'what ifs' anymore. So for both their sakes, Bom had discretely snuck off to the local pharmacy store and purchased a pair-- just in case. She waited until he had fallen asleep to escape his vice-like, protective hold and now here she was, waiting on cold hands and feet. Literally. Waiting. And waiting. She tiptoed and cast another side look at the clock.

2:27 A.M.

Sighing, she took another cautious glance down at white plastic staff on the counter. Taking a deep, shaking breath, and clearing , she stretched her trembling hands and tugged at the plastic. Shutting her eyes, she mentally counted one, two....three before snapping them open.

Park Bom clapped a hand over her slack-jawed mouth. She muffled a surprised cry. Bom shook her head and backed away from the sink until her ankles collided with the wall. She plummeted to the floor, her legs unable to hold her any further. The stick fell to the ground with a clatter and she quickly shied away from it, hugging her knees and pressing her back hard against the corner of the wall. What she had been speculating, questioning, and avoiding for the past month-- everything had been confirmed in mere seconds. It was funny how two small strip of pink changed her life.

Park Bom was pregnant.