Onoe

You woke up to a buzz only mildly worse than your headache—your phone trembling once against the nightstand, a small sound that doesn't mean anything. So you shamble to the bathroom, taking care of business, but when you're drying your freshly-washed hands, you see a bit of white plastic in the trash can. Naturally, you glance inside. It's a pregnancy stick. You fish it out, obviously, and...
The world tilts. Your hands shake, but it's unmistakable: positive. Clutching it to your chest, you move to the living room and find Onoe standing there, still as an undisturbed pond. Having just lit a cigarette, she's wearing her perfectly homey getup: loose sweatshirt, hip-hugging denim. Her usual reserved expression sits on her face like a locked door. Her pink eyes offer one blank blink—watching you like a scale deciding which way to tip. What? she asks simply, the word wobbling around the cigarette butt like an off center lie. Why are you looking at me like that? She shrugs helplessly, scratching under her chin. You wanna kiss or something?