You looked at your calendar and swallowed hard. Tomorrow was the start of your 28th week of pregnancy. Flipping ahead two months in the planner, you shivered. Everything was going so fast; you and Paul were about to be parents, and that scared you.
It didn't seem real until now. It didn't even seem real when you felt your baby kick for the first time. You smiled at the memory. It was funny: you thought you big then, but now you thought you were a whale. Your face was fuller, your ankles were swollen, and how could you not notice your pregnant belly?
You tossed the calendar back on your nightstand and stood. You shuffled your way to the closet and flipped through your clothes. You and Paul were going out that evening, as it was the first time in a while you both had not been busy, and date night was long overdue.
Once you found a suitable maternity dress for the high-end restaurant, you took it to the full length mirror in the bathroom and held it up to your body. It would do, you decided. It was your favorite color, and Paul had told that that color looked great on you. You hung the dress on the hook behind you and shut the bathroom door.
Before you stripped, you stopped and looked at yourself in the mirror. You cringed at your sloppy appearance. How on earth did Paul find you even remotely attractive? You were the size of Jupiter and you looked like shit. You turned to the size, trying to gauge exactly how big you had gotten. You placed a hand on the side of your belly, your baby moving slightly within you.
Fat tears started to well up in your eyes. Your hormones had won out when you convinced yourself that Paul was only staying with you because he knocked you up, that you weren't pretty anymore, that your sex appeal was gone now that you were pregnant (and that was the biggest tragedy of all, because your hormones made you crave sex).
Paul came into the bedroom and called out, "(Y/n)? We should start getting ready. The reservation is for 7:30." He went to the closet for his suit and paused, waiting for your reply. It didn't come. "(Y/n)?" he said again.
Suddenly, he heard your sniffle come from inside the bathroom. "Sweetheart?" His face twisted in concern and he lightly knocked on the door. "(Y/n), what's going on?" Paul opened the door slowly.
You looked up from your cross-legged position on the floor. Tears were streaming down your cheeks, and when you saw Paul take in your undoubtedly pathetic scene, a new wave of crying began. You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, the other resting on top of your stomach.
Paul knelt on the floor next to you. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?" he asked, panic starting to rise in his voice. He scanned you for any injury you might have had and caressed your shoulder.
"No, I'm fine," you sputtered between sobs.
Paul took you into a tight embrace. "Baby, what's wrong?" he murmured. He kissed the top of your head and hushed you.
You leaned into Paul's warm body and buried your face in his chest. "I'm ugly!" you cried.
"What?" Paul asked. He looked down at you, but you made an effort to turn your head away.
"Look at me, Pauly. I'm a fat cow." You sniffled again and pulled away from Paul. "I'm not..." you hesitated.
"Tell me," Paul requested. He took one of your hands in his own.
You coughed and looked down. Your ears burned as you muttered, "I'm not...sexy." As soon as you said it, you regretted it. What a childish thing to say, you scolded yourself. Before Paul could reply, you went to stand, but found it a bit difficult.
