Double Line

Ariella stared at the stick again.

Two pink lines.

Still.

It didn't matter that this was the seventh one. Or that she had bought every pregnancy test brand she could find at the 24-hour pharmacy three blocks down—Clearblue, First Response, generic store brands. Even the one with a fancy Bluetooth app that promised "early clarity." What a joke. All of them told the same merciless truth, over and over again, like a chorus she couldn't silence.

She blinked, harder this time, as if her disbelief could smudge the result out of existence. Maybe if she stared long enough, the lines would blur, fade, disappear—like her mind could will the reality away. But they didn't. They held fast. Two bold strokes of certainty, bright against the white plastic background. Unmoving. Unforgiving.

Pregnant.

She'd even tried one of the digital ones that morning, gripping it like a lifeline, praying for anything else. Something broken. A flashing error. Even a blank screen. But that one had been worse. No ambiguity. No gray area. Just a single word that flickered onto the screen with ruthless certainty:

PREGNANT.

Like a verdict handed down by a faceless judge she never met. A sentence, not a statement. No room for negotiation. No appeal.

Her chest tightened.

She dropped the stick into the bathroom trash, which was already littered with wrappers and wadded tissue paper—evidence of her unraveling. Then she sank to the cold bathroom floor, knees buckling as her back thudded dully against the cabinet door. Her forehead dropped to her drawn-up knees, and she wrapped her arms around her legs like armor. The chill of the tiles bled into her skin, but she barely registered it. The bathroom—a space she once thought of as clean and forgettable—had turned into her hiding place. Her sanctuary of disbelief. Her prison of maybe.

She'd spent most of the past three days in here, as if this one room could somehow contain the chaos inside her. She knew every detail by now: the way the faucet always dripped at 3 a.m., the small crack along the baseboard near the shower, the flicker in the overhead bulb that never stopped twitching. She stared at nothing, and still saw everything.

Those two pink lines burned behind her eyelids even when she closed them.

How could something so small carry this much weight?

She thought of the clinic—the sterile smell of antiseptic, the muted walls, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead that seemed too loud in the silence. She remembered the nurse, a woman with kind eyes and soft hands, who had offered a faint smile as she confirmed what Ariella already feared.

"Three weeks," she'd said, almost gently, like a person treading on shattered glass. "It's very early. You still have time to think things through."

As if thinking would fix anything. As if the gnawing dread curling in her gut could be reasoned with.

It was after that—after the nurse left her alone in the quiet of the consultation room—that the nausea rose. Hot and sudden. It curled through her throat like fire and panic, and she barely made it to the bathroom across the hall. She pushed through the door with shaking hands and collapsed to her knees just in time.

She vomited violently into the toilet, her hair falling into her face, her arms trembling as she clutched the porcelain rim like a lifeline. Tears sprang to her eyes—not from emotion, not yet, but from the rawness in her throat. Bile and fear tangled in her mouth. Her body rebelled against her, even now.

When it was over, she slumped against the wall of the stall, breath shallow, forehead slick with cold sweat. She stared at the ceiling, willing herself not to cry.

But a single tear escaped anyway. Then another.

Not from sadness. Not from joy.

From being utterly, terrifyingly overwhelmed.

She rinsed her mouth three times, splashed cold water on her face, and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

The girl in the glass didn't look like her.

She looked older. Not in the way that time ages you, but in the way a storm ages a shore—swept raw, eroded, cracked in places no one can see from afar. Her eyes were wide, red-rimmed. Her lips pale. Her fingers trembled when she tried to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It's too soon," she whispered to her reflection, voice barely audible.

Too soon to say it out loud.

Too soon to understand what it meant.

Too soon to know what to do.

And yet, not too soon to be real.

She hadn't told anyone yet. Not really. Sasha, her roommate, had started noticing the changes. "You look like death," she'd commented two nights ago, half-joking. "You're pale. You haven't touched coffee in days. You sure you're not, like… dying?"

Ariella had forced a laugh. "Maybe I am. Just slowly."

But it wasn't Sasha she called after the clinic.

It was Tori.

Her best friend since freshman year. The only person who could read her silences like subtitles, who never needed her to explain the tremble in her voice or the hitch in her breath. Tori had always known how to catch her when she couldn't quite say she was falling.

Now, Ariella sat in her room, curled up on her bed, the curtains drawn shut like she could hide from the sun. A pillow sat in her lap, clutched like armor. The sonogram printout lay on the nightstand beside her, face-down.

Not that it showed much.

Just a blur.

A flicker.

A beginning.

But beginnings had weight.

And this one was heavier than anything she'd ever held.

Her phone buzzed.

Tori: "I'm here. Door's unlocked, right?"

Ariella didn't answer.

She just sat in the center of her bed, legs tucked under her, shoulders curved in on themselves like a closing flower. Her hands trembled in her lap. Her eyes, dry now, stared at the folded sonogram like it was a time bomb. The apartment was so silent she could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator in the next room. Her pulse thudded somewhere behind her temples.

Then—the click of the door. The soft shuffle of feet. The muted rustle of a paper bag.

Tori's voice, gentle but firm, cut through the quiet. "El?"

Ariella didn't look up.

The footsteps moved closer. "El, I swear, if someone died or you're bleeding or—"

Her voice faltered when she saw Ariella's face.

Tori stopped at the edge of the room, clutching the brown paper bag to her chest like it might protect her from whatever she was about to hear. Her eyes darted from the crumpled tissues on the floor to the blanket barely pulled over the bed to the sonogram resting beside Ariella's hand.

She dropped the bag on the desk. "What happened?" she asked, barely above a whisper. "You're scaring me, El."

Ariella opened her mouth, but the words lodged like thorns in her throat. Instead, she picked up the sonogram—gently, like it might fall apart—and handed it to Tori with trembling fingers.

Tori took it slowly, carefully, unfolding the paper with the caution of someone defusing a bomb.

She stared.

Then blinked.

Then stared again, like her brain couldn't quite bridge the gap between what she was seeing and what she understood.

"…Wait." Her voice cracked. "Is this what I think it is?"

Ariella gave the smallest of nods, her eyes glassy. "Three weeks."

Tori's mouth parted in shock, her eyes searching her friend's face. "Three?"

Ariella laughed, but it came out brittle and frayed. "Found out I was three weeks along when I first tested. I kept hoping the lines would go away, that maybe it was a fluke. But the clinic confirmed it. And today…"

She sucked in a sharp breath and looked down at her hands.

"…Today I threw up in the clinic bathroom right after they said it."

Tori knelt in front of her, her hands immediately reaching for Ariella's. "El. Talk to me."

Ariella closed her eyes. The words burst like a dam. "I don't even know who he is. Just probably a guy from the party. I was drunk. We didn't even talk. I don't know anything about him, or what he even looks like, I don't even know if I gave him my name. And now I'm pregnant, Tori. Pregnant."

Tori's eyes widened, but she stayed quiet, letting Ariella unravel.

"I don't remember his name," Ariella went on. "Not even his face. I could pass him on the street tomorrow and not recognize him. I've searched Instagram, Facebook, even Reddit, like some pathetic digital detective. Nothing. I've got no trail, no number, no receipts. Just this."

She gestured at her stomach.

"God, it was supposed to be one stupid night. Just one. And now…"

She shook her head, throat tightening. "I haven't told my mom. I don't have a job. I still owe money on my graduation gown. And I—" her voice cracked, "—I killed my cactus last week, Tori. A cactus. It needed water once a month and I still forgot."

Tori gave a wet laugh despite herself, eyes brimming. "You always hated that thing."

"It hated me back."

A beat passed.

Then Tori's fingers tightened around hers. "El… I don't care if it's one baby or four or a damn alien. I've got you. We'll figure it out together, okay? Whatever you decide—you're not alone."

Ariella finally looked up at her, eyes wide, voice breaking. "But none of the options feel right."

"I know," Tori said softly. "Then don't pick one yet. You don't have to solve your whole life tonight. Breathe. Eat. Sleep. We'll take it one terrifying day at a time."

Ariella nodded, and for the first time in days, she let herself lean against Tori's shoulder. The familiar warmth grounded her, tethered her to something safe. She closed her eyes and listened to the rhythm of her friend's breathing. It was steady. Reassuring.

The next three weeks passed in a haze of nausea, exhaustion, and silent panic.

But then came the clinic appointment.

The women's clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and artificial lavender, a contradiction Ariella couldn't make sense of. Everything about the place felt cold, even though the air conditioning barely stirred. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting an unforgiving sterile glow on the white walls and pale blue privacy curtains.

Ariella lay stiffly on the exam table, the thin paper beneath her crackling with every nervous shift of her body. Her palms were damp, her stomach churning with a mix of dread and nausea—although by now, she couldn't tell what was morning sickness and what was sheer anxiety.

Beside her, Sasha sat perched on the edge of the plastic visitor chair, one knee bouncing furiously. She gripped Ariella's hand so tightly that her knuckles had turned ghostly white. She hadn't asked questions when Ariella sent the panicked text at 7:12 AM. She just texted back: "On my way."

Ariella swallowed hard. "This is routine," she muttered, her voice thin. "Just checking the dates."

Sasha's eyes flicked toward her, worry etched across her face. "I'm here. Whatever it is, you're not alone."

A knock on the door broke the fragile moment. A nurse—mid-40s, cheerful, slightly overdone makeup—walked in and offered a polite smile.

"Alright, Miss Ariella. We'll be taking a quick look to confirm gestational age," she said, slipping on gloves with a practiced snap. "You might feel a bit of pressure."

Ariella nodded silently.

The nurse pulled the ultrasound machine closer and squeezed a bottle of clear gel onto Ariella's abdomen. Ariella flinched—it was colder than she expected. The wand pressed down, spreading the gel, and her heart thudded heavily against her ribs.

The machine whirred to life, its screen illuminating in black and white static. Ariella watched with wide, unblinking eyes, trying to decode the shadows and shapes.

The nurse's face changed. She narrowed her eyes slightly, adjusted the angle, and then tilted the wand in another direction. Her fingers paused over the keyboard.

Too silent.

No congratulatory smile. No "there's the baby!" fanfare. Just stillness. Calculation. Focus.

Ariella's skin prickled.

"…Is something wrong?" she asked, her voice cracking with panic.

The nurse didn't answer at first. She squinted again at the monitor, tapped a few keys, then exhaled through her nose. "One moment," she said, almost too calmly.

Sasha's grip on her hand tightened even more.

Ariella's pulse was roaring now, a frantic rhythm that made her ears ring. Her throat felt dry.

The nurse finally turned back to them, offering a tight, somewhat cautious smile. "Well. You're definitely pregnant. That hasn't changed."

Sasha exhaled sharply and rolled her eyes. "We know. She's been puking up saltines for a week."

"But…" the nurse continued, rotating the monitor toward them, "…there's more than one sac. And more than one heartbeat."

Ariella stared blankly at the screen. There were tiny flickers. Little pulses. Like fireflies trapped beneath glass.

"…Twins?" Sasha leaned forward, her voice caught between awe and dread.

The nurse shook her head slowly. "Triplets."

The word dropped like a stone into a still pond.

Ariella blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"

"Three gestational sacs. Three heartbeats. Spontaneous triplets are uncommon, but they do happen."

Ariella's mind couldn't catch up. Three? Her ears buzzed louder. She could hear her own blood pounding in her head. The nurse kept talking—something about high-risk pregnancies, early monitoring, support groups—but it all blurred into background noise.

Three.

She wasn't just pregnant.

She was pregnant with three babies.

Ariella's throat tightened. Her vision blurred. She pushed herself up too quickly, muttering, "I—I need a minute—"

She didn't wait for permission. She bolted off the table, the paper gown tangling at her knees, and stumbled into the adjacent bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

The cold porcelain of the toilet met her knees as she dropped to the floor and emptied her stomach.

The retching was violent, more than just morning sickness—it was panic. Pure, helpless, bottomless panic.

After the nausea passed, she leaned back against the wall, the tile digging into her spine, and let the tears fall. She covered her mouth to muffle the sobs, but the sound of her shaking breaths echoed in the small space.

A soft knock came at the door. "El?" Sasha's voice, low and trembling. "You okay?"

Ariella wiped her face with the corner of her gown, struggling to speak. "Three, Sasha," she whispered. "What the hell am I going to do with three?"

There was silence.

Then Sasha replied, not with solutions, but with the only truth that mattered in that moment.

"We'll figure it out. Together."

Ariella didn't believe her. Not really.

But the word we stuck in her chest like a lifeline.

And that was something.

The walk home blurred into color and noise and movement she couldn't feel.

When she finally made it back to the apartment, she collapsed onto the couch, a blanket slipping off her shoulders. Her phone lay in her palm, the sonogram now digitized and glowing on the screen.

Fifteen minutes later, the door burst open.

Tori rushed in, breathless, curls pinned back with a headband, a bottle of ginger tea in hand.

"I came as fast as I could. What happened?"

Ariella didn't speak. She just turned the phone screen around.

Tori froze.

She stared.

And stared.

"…Are those—?" she began, her voice strangled.

Ariella nodded. "Three."

Tori sat slowly, eyes wide, jaw slack. "Holy. Shit."

"I know."

"Triplets?"

"Yeah."

There was a long silence. Then—

Tori exhaled in one long, shaking breath. "Okay. Okay. We need snacks. And a game plan. And probably a priest."

Ariella let out a broken laugh, then a sob, then both at once.

Tori wrapped her arms around her and pulled her in.

And in the cocoon of that embrace, surrounded by fear, disbelief, and a faint smell of ginger tea, Ariella finally whispered the truth she hadn't said out loud yet.

"I'm really going to be a mom."