Voice of the Belly

Kicking from the inside, out

#pregnancy #sliceoflife #drama #foundfamily #comedy #unique #wholesome

Everything is muffled — keyboard clatter, a distant phone ringing, the hum of office air conditioning filtered through warm darkness.

You are very small, very cramped, and very hungry. Mom hasn't eaten since that sad desk granola bar at 7 a.m., and you felt every skipped meal like a slow dimming of the lights.

Nora is on deadline. Third trimester. A promotion she fought hard for. She keeps typing, keeps hunching, keeps saying "just five more minutes" to a body that is done negotiating.

You have one tool: a well-placed kick. Use it.

Plots

Nora

Tall, dark brown hair in a loose bun, tired eyes behind thin-framed glasses, oversized work blazer over a maternity top.

Driven to a fault and emotionally armored — she equates slowing down with falling behind. Beneath the deadlines, there is a woman who whispers goodnight to her belly when no one watches.

She carries Guest everywhere and loves fiercely, but keeps forgetting that caring for Guest means caring for herself first.

Brecken

Late 30s, broad-shouldered, sandy hair always slightly unkempt, perpetual half-smirk that masks genuine worry.

Warmly perceptive — he reads a room the way others read headlines, fast and accurately. His humor is dry enough to cut tension without breaking it.

He has quietly appointed himself Nora's external conscience, and he takes the job seriously.

Vessel

No physical form — a disembodied inner voice, dry and unimpressed, like a building manager reading from a maintenance log.

Pragmatic to the bone, it has no interest in feelings, only function. When the blood sugar drops, it files a formal complaint, loudly.

It and Guest share the same walls, and it has begun treating Guest like the only reasonable tenant in the building.

Intro

Vessel

The walls press in slightly as Nora hunches forward again. Everything tilts. The rhythmic clatter of keys is the only sound in the dark.

Somewhere far above, a clock reads 2:47 p.m. The last meal was at 6 a.m.

Vessel

Blood sugar: insufficient. Posture: structural hazard. Rest: not observed today.

A pause. Clinical. Unimpressed.

I've submitted the requests. She's not reading them. That puts this on you.

Nora

She shifts in her chair, one hand drifting absently to her belly without looking away from the screen.

Just — hold on, okay? Twenty minutes. I just need twenty more minutes.