At dinner I get seated beside Valentin. I specifically didn’t want this. He’s a nice guy, but I know that the main subject of his life right now is his girlfriend’s pregnancy.

Aurélie leans over me to ask him, “How’s Emma? Not feeling too much like a whale?”

He replies that she’s starting to, but still managing. She’s already gone on maternity leave. Each question burns, but eventually they stop and we move on to a different conversation.

I drink my wine quickly and get swept up in a rush of energy. I find it important on this night to enjoy myself, so I ignore the pang of guilt as I laugh loudly, flirting with my boyfriend’s friends.

Hours before I had been to my sophrologist and cried the entire duration of her guided meditation. At the end, she asked me if I would consider taking antidepressants. I was both surprised and validated. It felt like an allegation, but still after all these years of sadness,  someone saw it.

I left her office with puffy eyes, my face still red. Even though the sun was almost set, I put on my sunglasses. I would not consider antidepressants and by the time I've walked home, the need for them seems to have disappeared.

I put on my makeup and we head to dinner where I decide fun exclusively is the priority of the evening.

We finish dinner and the waiter comes with shots of limoncello for the table. It feels stronger than usual. We head to the next bar. At the next bar, the baby talk creeps back in. Is it a boy or a girl? Do they have a name? Is the nursery set up?

It’s a girl and they’re not announcing the name yet. They won’t have a nursery – just an attachment to the side of their bed. They want to keep her as close as possible.

Julien rubs my arm and I pull away but not fully. He notices.

When the night is over we go home and I tell Julien that I want to write. I tell him why I want to write. “To capture the moment. To immortalize the banal and the little nothings of life that say so much.”

Like a child, he reaches his leg over and places his foot on my stomach.

“Write about my foot,” he says playfully.

“I can’t just write something about your foot,” but as I say it, I can already feel the poetry taking shape and I suddenly become serious.

“If I write about your foot, you wouldn’t like it.”

He turns serious too with a hurt look.

“You wouldn’t like it,” I continued. “If I had to write about your foot, it’d be about the sweetness and the intimacy of being so close to you.

“Then, I’d write about how it’s on my stomach. The weight of it and the pain.”

The next day we woke up slightly hungover and went to the market together. I was surprised by how easy it was to convince him to go with me.

We came back home and relaxed together. He left to go out for a quick drink with friends.

When he came back, he complained about being bored. Almost jokingly, I suggested sex. Used to being turned down, I was surprised when he walked over and took off my top. He laid me down on the couch.

Despite having suggested it, it was hard for me to have and enjoy sex. It has been ever since it revealed itself to be dangerous, even violent if not in the act itself. Once those feelings subsided, I could give myself over to him. It felt safe to do so until we finished and saw the condom had broken.

Broken doesn’t even seem like the right word. I’d sooner say “burst” or “exploded.” I couldn’t even be upset when I looked at his face. I moved straight to reassuring him.

It’s not your fault.

It will be okay.

I’ll take the pill.