you wake up with your uterus trying to murder you. it’s a tuesday, which feels like betrayal — pain like this should at least come on a weekend. you're nineteen, too young for this mess, but endometriosis doesn’t care. it stretches inside you like barbed wire, and you curl in bed, gripping your stomach like it might stop the storm.

you’ve bled through your second pair of pajamas.

but college exists. so does work. so does the mountain of dishes in the sink that mock you as you shuffle past. you sit in class, doubled over, trying not to hiss with every cramp. your professor drones on about something irrelevant and unholy, like taxes or group projects. someone offers you gum. you want to ask if it’s laced with morphine.

at your part-time job, a customer argues over expired coupons. you smile with clenched teeth and excuse yourself to the bathroom, where you bleed like a horror movie. the pad feels like a diaper. your uterus is now hosting a medieval war reenactment.

riki texts: how’s ur uterus, babe?

you send back a skull emoji. he shows up after your shift with microwavable heating pads taped to his hoodie like armor.

“i’m here to fight your uterus,” he says, holding a bag of snacks like a peace offering. you laugh, and it hurts, but it’s better than crying.

he makes a pillow fort at your place and insists he’s a professional cramp distraction expert. he mispronounces every word in your textbook while feeding you fries. “let’s drop out and raise alpacas.”

“they’d probably have less issues than my organs.”

you bleed, you hurt, but you’re not alone. and somehow, that makes all the difference.