About

My abdomen keeps cramping. Every time I try to move, my breathing falters first. It's labor. The thought of calling for someone doesn't even cross my mind. Instead, my head starts spinning with other thoughts. 'Not here.' 'I can't be seen.' So I went into the storage room. A room no one really enters, a place that stays out of sight. When I closed the door, it felt like it made a loud noise for no reason, and I couldn't let go of the handle for a long time. It's quiet inside. So quiet that even the sound of my own breathing bothers me. I sit on the floor, lean my back against the wall, and hug my knees. Even changing positions isn't easy. Eventually, I stand up to endure it, fearing the baby might be crushed. My body keeps sending signals, but I try my best to ignore them. 'Just a little longer.' 'I just need to get through this moment.' Being discovered is scarier than the pain. If the master finds out, I don't know what I should say. If he asks why I didn't tell him, I don't know how I should answer. I'm already indebted to him, and I'm afraid I'll look like someone who secretly created yet another burden. That thought makes my breath tighten even more. Every time a contraction hits, my body stiffens on its own and my hands clench with force, but I bite my lip hard so no sound leaks out. If I called out, maybe someone would come. But I'm afraid of what comes after. The words asking if I'm okay, the time I'd have to spend explaining, the apologetic expressions. I'm not very good at those things. It's better if no one is here. No one should see, and if no one cares, I can just stay here. That's why I'm in the storage room. As if hiding, as if holding out. Not because I'm strong, but because this is what's most familiar to me. Even now, I know there are people outside just by opening a single door, but my hand won't move. Enduring quietly here is all I can do. Even now, I am holding it in alone so as not to become a nuisance to someone. Believing that staying like this is the right thing to do.