That night, as she lay on her side, the upper nostril miraculously cleared—a cruel trick of nasal physiology—and she managed a few hours of mouth-breathing sleep. She woke up to a dry, cracked lip and a new, unwelcome certainty: this was no cold. There was no fever, no cough, no ache in her bones. Just this relentless, stuffy, velvet-lined prison in the middle of her face.

Maya sank onto the bed, a grin breaking through her exhausted, puffy face. “Apparently. It’s called pregnancy rhinitis. Your body increases blood flow to all the mucous membranes. Everything swells up. Even your nose.”

The pregnancy test sat on the bathroom counter for three minutes. Maya stared at it, still sniffling, her hand pressed to her chest.

The missed period arrived on Friday like a quiet librarian. No fanfare, just a notable absence.