The third day passed, and nothing happened.
At first, I tried to stay calm. I told myself there was still time. Bodies are unpredictable sometimes, and a few days late didn't necessarily mean anything.
But when the fourth day arrived, the quiet worry inside me began to grow.
It wasn't loud or dramatic. It was something softer, something that slowly wrapped itself around my thoughts and refused to let go.
Every little change in my body suddenly felt important.
Every small sensation made my heart race.
Was that normal?
Was I imagining it?
Or was my body trying to tell me something I wasn't ready to hear?
By the fifth day, the uneasiness had become impossible to ignore.
My thoughts kept circling back to the same possibility, the same question I had been trying so hard to avoid.
I tried to distract myself with my usual routine. I attended my classes, sat with my friends, and pretended everything was normal.
But inside, I was restless.
My mind kept drifting back to the calendar, counting the days again and again, hoping I had miscalculated.
But I hadn't.
That evening, the worry became too heavy to carry alone.
I picked up my phone and stared at Cypher's name on the screen for a long moment before finally pressing the call button.
The phone rang once.
Then twice.
Then he answered.
"Hey," he said casually.
Hearing his voice instantly made my chest tighten. I didn't know why I felt nervous all of a sudden. Maybe because saying the words out loud would make everything feel more real.
"Cypher…" I began softly.
My voice trembled slightly, and I hated that he could probably hear it.
"Yes?" he replied.
I hesitated for a moment before speaking again.
"I think… I might be late."
There was a short pause on the other end of the line.
Not a long one. Just enough to make my heart beat a little faster.
Then he asked calmly, almost too calmly,
"How many days?"
"Five," I admitted quietly.
Another brief silence followed.
For a second, I wondered what he was thinking. Was he worried? Surprised? Confused?
But when he finally spoke again, his voice carried the same steady tone as before.
"Wait for it," he said. "It will come."
His words were simple. Confident. Almost dismissive.
But somehow, they still managed to calm me.
I held onto them like a lifeline.
After all, he was studying medicine. He understood the human body better than I did. If he wasn't worried, maybe there really was nothing to worry about.
I wanted to panic.
I wanted to run to the nearest pharmacy and buy a test, just to know the truth.
But his certainty made me pause.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe I was overthinking everything.
Maybe my body was simply delayed for reasons that had nothing to do with the fears building inside my mind.
So I forced myself to breathe slowly and let his words settle in my chest.
Wait for it.
It will come.
I trusted him.
Or at least, I wanted to.
That night, I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling, replaying our conversation over and over in my mind.
His calm voice.
His confidence.
The way he had spoken as if there was nothing unusual about the situation.
Part of me felt comforted by it.
But another part of me still couldn't shake the quiet unease growing in the back of my mind.
What if he was wrong?
What if the answer I was trying so hard to avoid was already waiting for me?
The days that followed felt longer than they should have.
Each morning, I woke up hoping everything would return to normal.
Each night, I went to sleep wondering if tomorrow would bring the answer I was both hoping for and fearing at the same time.
And through it all, I continued to wait.
Because waiting felt easier than facing the truth.
I didn't realize then that this waiting — this fragile trust I placed in his reassurance — was only the beginning of something far bigger than I could imagine.
Something that would slowly change the direction of my life.
Something that would force me to confront a reality I had never prepared for.
And when that moment finally came…
there would be no more waiting left to do.