The Secret Pregnancy

Arya bit his lip until it nearly split as the next contraction tore through him. His fingers clawed at the sweat-soaked sheets, his breath coming in ragged gasps like a fish stranded on land. His usually neat boarding room was now chaos—towels strewn across the floor, a basin of tepid water, scissors, and thread he’d sterilized hastily with a lighter.  

No one can find out… 

The words had looped in his head all afternoon, ever since his water broke. He’d planned meticulously: a medical leave notice for university, a month’s worth of stockpiled snacks, even maxi pads for the bleeding after. But nothing could’ve prepared him for this—the vise-grip agony, the way his bones seemed to crack apart.  

“AAAH—!”  

Arya choked back another scream, teeth sinking into his lower lip. Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, and his pulse spiked. Not now. Please. If a neighbor heard and called the landlord, it’d all be over—his reputation, his future, maybe even his baby’s life.  

The next contraction came faster. Arya crawled to the edge of the bed, knees hitting the cold linoleum as he trembled. He wedged a sweat-drenched pillow between his thighs, bracing himself. The position was supposed to help, according to the dozens of home-birth articles he’d scoured, but theory meant nothing when his body felt like it was being ripped in two. His stomach hardened to stone; pressure burned between his hips.  

A guttural groan escaped as he gripped his aching waist. The baby wasn’t waiting. With shaking hands, Arya grabbed a towel and half-collapsed against the bedframe, panting in short bursts like that YouTube midwife had demonstrated.  

Fire erupted between his legs—the crown of the baby’s head emerging. He sobbed, louder this time, tears mixing with the sweat drenching his body. The handheld mirror he’d set up earlier reflected the nightmare-reality: Oh god, this is really happening.  

One final, excruciating push, and the head slid free. Arya gasped in relief—but it wasn’t over. His entire body shook as he guided the tiny shoulders out. “Come on,” he begged, pushing with the dregs of his strength—