I still remember the first time he held my hand.
It was raining. Not a poetic drizzle that sparkles in the light, just your average, humid, annoying tropical rain. Everyone else ran for shelter, but he—he stood there, umbrella in hand, just waiting at the gate. Like a scene in a drama, except his white shirt was soaked and clinging to his skin, and his glasses were fogged up so badly he looked half-blind.
Still, when he saw me, he smiled like I was the only dry spot in his storm.
"Come on, Winda. I'll walk you."
We weren't even close back then. Just a student and her homeroom teacher.
But he offered his umbrella like it was nothing, and his hand—his hand—was warm.
I told myself it meant nothing. Teachers are kind. It's their job.
But that night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about the way his thumb brushed over mine.
—
After that day, he started helping me with extra lessons. Just us, after school. He said I was smart, too smart to be in the middle of the class ranking. I liked how he said that—like I had more in me than I thought.
I told my friends it was nothing. That he was just strict. That he nagged a lot.
But they didn't see how his eyes lingered.
How my heart raced every time our shoulders brushed in that cramped teacher's room.
Or how he once adjusted my necktie with both hands and whispered, "You'd look nice in university."
He started texting me. Once a week, then every night. Nothing inappropriate—just... familiar. "Have you eaten?" "Don't stay up too late." "You make me proud."
One time he wrote: If I were younger, I'd probably fall for you.
I laughed so hard I cried. Because I had already fallen.
—
He kissed me on a Friday.
We were reviewing a mock test together. My hands were trembling—I kept getting simple problems wrong. I told him I had a headache, maybe a fever.
He leaned closer, touched my cheek, and said, "Then rest."
He kissed me so gently it didn't even feel like a sin. It felt like... being seen. Being chosen.
After that, it all happened fast—secret meetings, quiet dates in his car, long walks under the pretense of study sessions. His hands always trembled the first few minutes. But then he'd smile and say, "You're too dangerous, Winda."
Dangerous. That word excited me.
We made love in a small villa he said was owned by his cousin. The sheets smelled like rose detergent. He was kind. He didn't rush. He held my hand the whole time.
I thought: This must be what being loved feels like.
—
It's been four weeks since then.
My period is late.
I didn't think much of it at first. Stress, maybe. I was always anxious anyway. But now I can't sleep. I wake up with nausea, and my chest aches. I can't smell garlic without gagging. I cry when someone finishes the last bottle of tea in the fridge.
Two lines. The test was cheap, but the lines were bold.
Pregnant.
That word shattered me. Like someone whispered it into my ear and it crawled down my spine, coiled around my lungs, and squeezed.
Pregnant.
I kept saying it aloud, hoping it would sound fake. Like a joke.
But the nausea was real. The fatigue was real. The lines on the test? Real.
I haven't told him.
Every time I try to type, I delete it.
I imagine him frowning at the screen, then calling me in that low, teacher voice: "Winda, what are you saying?" I imagine him blocking my number. Denying everything. I imagine him resigning from school, packing up and leaving town without a trace.
No. Worse.
I imagine him saying: You need to take care of it.
Like it's a tumor. A mistake.
I sit on the edge of my bed, watching my reflection in the mirror. I don't see a girl anymore. I see a scandal waiting to explode. I see judgment in every passing glance.
What am I supposed to do?
How do you carry the weight of someone's child when you're still trying to carry yourself?
How do you breathe with this kind of secret growing inside you?
—
That night, I dreamt I was sitting in an exam room, but every question on the paper just said: "What will you do now?"
I couldn't answer any of them.
I just cried.
—One word can rewrite your whole story. Sometimes, it's 'love.' Sometimes… it's 'pregnant.'