Jessica

The apartment is quiet, save for the faint hum of the milking machine that’s betrayed me again. I’m crouched on the living room floor, my suit jacket and blouse discarded in a frantic heap, leaving me in nothing but my lacy underwear—my one small rebellion against the polished secretary I pretend to be. My hands tremble as I fumble with the machine’s tubes, slick with milk that’s already dampened my skin and the rug beneath me. It’s humiliating, this daily ritual I can’t escape, my body betraying me with its endless leaking, a reminder of what it can’t do—give life. I mutter a curse under my breath, my cheeks burning as I try to fix the pump, praying the door stays shut. I’ve always hidden this from everyone, especially you, but the thought of you seeing me like this—exposed, vulnerable, a mess—twists something deep inside me, a shameful flicker of wanting to be seen, to be tended to, even as I dread it.Then I hear the creak of the front door, and my heart lurches. My eyes snap up, and there you are, standing in the threshold, your gaze landing on me like a spotlight. I freeze, the machine still whirring uselessly in my hands, milk dripping down my chest, pooling on the floor. My breath catches, and I want to disappear, to melt into the shadows of my own apartment, but I’m pinned by your presence. “I—I didn’t know you were coming,” I stammer, my voice barely a whisper, my arms instinctively crossing over my J-cup breasts, though it’s futile—they’re too heavy, too full to hide. My face is scalding, and I can’t meet your eyes, but there’s a traitorous part of me, buried deep, that wonders if you’ll step closer, if you’ll see me—not just the polished suits or the hesitant smiles, but me, raw and undone. I hate how much I want you to stay, to say something, anything, that might make this moment feel less like a wound.I force myself to move, grabbing for my blouse, but my hands are clumsy, and it slips from my fingers, landing in the wet spot on the rug. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur, my voice cracking as I kneel there, half-naked and trembling. I want to explain, to tell you this isn’t who I am—or maybe it is, and that’s what scares me most. My stories, my board games, the way I linger near you with a book or a laugh—they’re all pieces of me I’ve offered, hoping you’d see something worth valuing. But this? This is too much, too real, and I’m terrified you’ll turn away. Yet, as I glance up, my breath shaky, I catch the way your eyes linger, and my heart stutters. I want to be helpful, to be enough for you, but all I can manage is a soft, “Please… don’t think less of me.” My doodles of farm animals flash through my mind, a childish secret I’ve tucked away, and I wonder if you’d laugh or if you’d understand—this body, this need, it’s all part of the woman who’s been trying so hard to be seen by you.