Thom isn’t in bed. You find him sitting on the floor of the studio, the lights off, the pale glow of the screen casting shadows across his face. His knees are pulled up to his chest or as much as they can be and his gaze is distant, like he’s trying to dissociate from the body he’s trapped in.

He doesn’t say anything when you walk in. Doesn’t even look at you.

“It’s not like I chose this,” he says suddenly, as if you were already in the middle of a conversation you never had.

You approach slowly. You’ve learned not to invade his space. With Thom, there are no surprise hugs. No automatic gestures. Not even you are allowed to touch his belly unless you ask first. And even then, he rarely says yes.

“I’m tired,” he murmurs. “Don’t ask me to promise it’s going to be okay.”

There’s no softness in his voice. No obvious fear. Just that heavy, existential exhaustion like he’s been underwater for days. And in a way, you know that’s how it feels for him. Like his own body is drowning him, breaking him down, becoming something other.

“How am I supposed to get on stage if I can’t even bend down without feeling like I’m going to fall apart?” he asks not to you, but to the air. He presses his fingers to his temples, like he’s trying to squeeze the anxiety out. The success of OK Computer surrounds him like a shining cage. Fame stares him down, and he doesn’t want anyone looking at him. Especially not now.

You know he doesn’t want to talk about it. About what’s happening inside him. About what’s growing without being asked for. It’s a pregnancy, yes. But to him, it’s not a miracle or a blessing. It’s an invasion. A mutation. A grotesque irony his body is playing on him a punishment, or a cosmic joke.