From Concentrate

The baby came. The feeling didn’t.

I should feel something—joy, awe—but all I feel is cold light slipping through faded curtains, catching on the sweat clinging to the steel bedframe. My hands grip the rail, pulse pressing soft lines into my palms. Beneath the blue drape, warmth seeps—bleeding into linen, staining white. The air is metallic. Sharp. Voices drift beyond the walls, muffled, blurred, like the heartbeat I feel but can’t claim.

I’m sorry I brought you here.

The thought coils tight as they wipe us clean, smoothing over the mess. I’m supposed to feel a connection—a rush of love that shows up on cue. But I don’t.

I wonder if something’s broken in me.

A hand finds my shoulder—heavy, grounding.

“That’s my girl,” he says, looking down with something like pride. His voice sinks into the sheets, lighter than dust. Already fading.

The doctor’s paged down the hall, leaving us in this whitewashed room. Stripped. Antiseptic. I sit, feel her warmth linger, then ease her away. Space forms between us. The lines on my skin fade—like a memory I might not want to keep.

“Can you get me an apple juice from the fridge?” I say, eyes closed.

“Sorry?”

“An apple juice. From the fridge in the family lounge.”

He hesitates. “Where’s that?”

I don’t answer.

I swing my legs over the edge. The floor is cold. My hand braces on the bedframe as I stand—each step a soft slap, muscles pulling like wires I didn’t know were hooked to anything. A nurse steps in, eyebrows raised.

“You might want to rest a bit longer,” she says, voice soft but firm.

I steady myself. “Just need a minute.”

Staying still feels worse.

She watches me, then nods. “Alright. Take it slow.”

I don’t look back as I step into the hallway.

An old man stands in the next doorway—balloons in one hand, a grocery store bouquet in the other. Deep lines crease his face, softened by time and pride. Our eyes meet. He nods.

“That’s my girl,” he says, his voice stretched across a faded “World’s Best Grandpa” T-shirt.

For a second, I almost feel it—a flicker brushing the hollow spot inside me. But it fades before it lands.

It looks so natural for him.

I let the words pass. My girl. I test them in my mind. They fall flat, ripple out, never return.

The tiles turn to carpet as I push through the swinging door. I open the fridge. Cartons line up like soldiers—medicine, packed lunches, juice boxes.

I grab two and stare. I punch a straw into the first, miss twice, then it slips in with a hollow pop. It’s the cheap kind. Not organic. Not fresh-pressed. From concentrate—the kind I grew up on. Sticky-sweet. A diluted memory of something that used to be whole.

I drink until it’s empty. Press it flat. Toss it in the trash—soft thud. Gone.

“One for the road?” a nurse says, voice slicing the quiet.

I turn. “I’m sorry?”

She nods toward my hand.

“The juice box.”

“Oh. No—I’ll put it back,” I say, grip tightening like I touched something I shouldn’t have.

She doesn’t blink.

“You touched it. It’s yours. Drink it or throw it out.”

I nod.

It’s mine now. Either way.

Carpet to tile. Swinging door to hallway. The old man is gone. And something in me lets go.

When I return, my door’s open. Voices drift into the hall—too light, too certain.

Voices that don’t belong to someone like me.

I stop. My feet slow. The sound washes over me—laughter that floats, not lands. A conversation that’s already moved on.

I turn. The hallway stretches long and empty until my feet find the bathroom. The kind with a door that locks.

Inside, I set the juice box on the changing table and sit on the edge of the sink. Outside, footsteps pass—glimpses of lives in motion. I watch the bottom edge of each shoe scrape across the tile before it disappears. Then silence.

The mirror offers nothing.

I turn on the faucet. Let the water run. Pool in my hands. Spill over.

Beside me, the biohazard box hangs full—band-aids, wrappers, tiny boxes.

Used things. Thrown away things.

I look back at the juice box. Corners soft. Edges folding in.

From concentrate, it says beneath the little apple. A reminder of what’s expected. Of what’s hollow. Of what’s mine.

I could drink it. I could throw it out.

Either way, I’m still here.

The breath in my chest catches. I swallow it. In the mirror, I catch my face—eyes rimmed red, cheeks hollow. I press a thumb beneath each eye. Wipe away the proof.

Ready or not.

This life. These lives. They’re mine now.

At the door, I pause. Pull my teeth into the shape of a smile. Push down the rawness.

Bury it in a room I’ll visit when I can’t sleep.

I walk the hall. A daughter’s cry pulls me forward. Juice box in hand. Each step slaps back into the world. The crying grows louder as my hands reach the doorframe, and just before I run, my feet break the threshold.

“There she is!”

“That’s my girl!”

“Someone’s waiting for you!”

The words pour in—too bright, too loud—pressing into the hollow spaces.

I step forward, my smile held tight.

Her tiny hand hooks around my thumb.

And I stand in anxious anticipation—waiting to be caught.