21

It's another day I wake up and check my tummy first. It's not showing yet. Soon, using school as an excuse for acting up is going to get old.

And another day I wake up to my mother's voice on my phone. Home. Did she say home? That place never felt like home, if anything it's more like prison. Or hell even. But I am done complaining.

Why does she want me there?

I am not going, there are no two ways about it. I comb my hair slowly, which I always make sure I do everyday even though it's going to be covered in a hijab. My mother will kill me if she knew I am wearing hijabs instead of our annointed headwraps. But they look good on me, I could apologize for those who wear them because of religion. I am using them as aesthetics.