Jennifer woke with a start, her sheets tangled around her legs, the room dim with early morning light. Her body felt… off. Again. Heavier, tighter. Like she’d sunk deeper into whatever strange fog had settled over her life since the night at the bar.
She sat up slowly, her shirt clinging to her chest, stretched tighter than it had been the night before. Her breasts ached with a constant, low throb—fuller now, heavy in a way that was impossible to ignore. She swallowed and looked down, noticing the outline of her nipples against the fabric—larger, darker, more sensitive than ever.
A pit settled in her stomach as she pulled back the blanket further.
Her eyes widened.
Her belly, flat just two days ago, now curved forward in a soft, unmistakable roundness. She pressed her hands to it, half expecting it to deflate like a dream. But it didn’t. It was real. Firm. Smooth. Visibly changed.
It looked like a three-month bump. Not bloating. Not weight gain. Something else.
She rushed to the bathroom, flipped on the light, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was slightly flushed, and a few blemishes dotted her cheeks—subtle, but new. Her reflection looked unfamiliar. Not worse, not frightening. Just different. A version of her that didn’t make sense.
She lifted her shirt, turned to the side, and stared at the curve of her belly again. Her breath caught. No way this was natural. No way this was normal.
But it was happening.
Jennifer sat on the closed toilet lid, her hands still resting on her midsection, her thoughts spinning too fast to land anywhere. She didn’t feel sick. Didn’t feel pain. Just… altered. Like something inside her had clicked into motion without her permission.
She didn’t cry. Not yet. She just sat there, eyes unfocused, trying to piece it all together.
Whatever this was, it was changing her.
And it wasn’t slowing down.