I am Now

 

I used to be Marcus. Just a regular guy, floating through life without a plan. I had a decent job, good friends, bad habits, and a firm belief that condoms were cheaper than child support. Then the Great Shift happened, and everything I thought I knew about myself got ripped away in a single morning.

I woke up with breasts. With hips. With a body that wasn’t mine but very much alive under my skin. I screamed so loud the neighbors banged on the wall. My voice wasn’t mine either. The reflection staring back at me in the bathroom mirror wasn’t Marcus — it was Melissa.

At first, I fought it. The first time I had to wrestle into a bra, I swore it was some medieval torture device. Shaving legs? Constant, annoying, impossible. My first period? Let’s just say I cried in the pharmacy aisle, clutching a box of tampons like it was a detonator. Every little thing reminded me that I wasn’t Marcus anymore.

But months went by, and little by little, I adapted. I learned how to walk in heels without looking like a baby giraffe. I could finally do eyeliner without stabbing myself in the eye. Clothes started to feel like me instead of costumes. And the attention? Oh, I noticed it. Guys bought me drinks. Girls invited me in like I’d always been part of the circle. Somewhere along the way, Melissa stopped feeling like a mask. She just… was.

Then Ethan happened.

At first, I swore I wasn’t ready to date. I was still figuring out what the hell to do with a bra clasp, let alone a boyfriend. But Ethan was different — steady, charming, easy. The first time he kissed me, my stomach flipped so hard I nearly laughed. So this is what butterflies feel like.

The first time we had sex, I was terrified. I thought I’d just “try it” like it was some experiment. But the second his hands slid over me, my body betrayed me completely. I moaned — not a fake, not a forced one, but a raw, needy moan I didn’t even recognize as mine. And then I couldn’t stop. Every kiss, every thrust, every moment felt overwhelming and addictive. By the end, I was gasping, shaking, and grinning like an idiot.

And then came that night. The condom was on the dresser. I saw it. I thought about it. Then Ethan kissed me again, and it was game over. We were tipsy, frantic, clothes flying everywhere, and before I could stop him, he was inside me raw. Different. Riskier. More intimate.

I still remember how it felt — sharper, hotter, deeper. My legs locked around him on instinct, nails dragging down his back as I begged, don’t stop, harder, please. I knew exactly what was happening when he groaned in my ear, his pace breaking, his weight pressing me down. I didn’t care. I pulled him closer and let it happen. When he finally stilled, breathless and buried inside me, I knew. He hadn’t pulled out.

I remember thinking, Well, that was probably a mistake… a really, really good mistake.

A few weeks later, I was on the bathroom floor staring at two pink lines and whispering, “Oh crap. I’m actually pregnant.”

Fast forward: six months later, my belly’s round and impossible to hide. The baby kicks when I’m trying to sleep, kicks when I’m mid-conversation, kicks just to remind me this is real. Ethan is over the moon — he talks to my bump every morning like it can hear him, which, apparently, it can. Two months ago, he proposed after our first ultrasound. Right there in the doctor’s office, ring box shaking in his hands. I said yes, tears running down my face, clutching his hand and my belly at the same time.

Which brings me to today.

I’m standing in front of the mirror, smoothing a ribbed skirt over my bump, black tank top hugging curves I still can’t believe are mine, Converse on my feet because heels are out of the question. I lift my phone, snap a picture, smirk at the screen. Me. Melissa. Hand on my belly, diamond ring glinting, looking like I’d been born for this role when really, a year ago, I was shotgun-chugging beers with my cousins at the same reunion I’m about to walk into.

Ethan leans in the doorway, sipping his coffee. “Still taking selfies?”

“Evidence,” I tell him, striking a little pose. “In case anyone forgets that I went from your average dude to maternity chic in twelve months.”

He laughs, sets his coffee down, and comes up behind me, his hand finding my belly like it belongs there. “You look beautiful.”

I roll my eyes, though my cheeks warm anyway. “Beautiful? Babe, I look like a basketball smuggler.”

“Sexy basketball smuggler,” he corrects, kissing my cheek.

I grin, biting my lip. “You weren’t calling me that the night you knocked me up.”

His smirk widens. “You weren’t exactly complaining.”

My thighs press together at the memory. God, I wasn’t. I can still feel how raw and overwhelming that night was. His weight on me, his voice in my ear, the way my body lit up when I realized he wasn’t pulling out and I didn’t care. Even now, I catch myself thinking about it and my belly reminds me, Yep, he really didn’t pull out.

I shake my head, laughing to myself. “Do you think I should tell my family that story? Or just say it was a magical, fairytale accident?”

“Definitely fairytale,” Ethan says, chuckling. “No one needs the visual.”

I sigh, grabbing my purse. “Fair enough. Still can’t believe I’m about to walk in there like this. Last year, I was Marcus. This year? I’m Melissa, pregnant, engaged, and waddling like a penguin.”

He squeezes my hand. “And they’re going to love you.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe they’ll see Melissa — not Marcus, not a mistake — but me, as I am now.

One year ago, I was a guy who swore he wasn’t marriage material. Today, I’m Melissa — engaged, six months pregnant, and secretly a little proud of how good I look in that mirror selfie.

And honestly? I wouldn’t change a thing.