The Line Crossed

Brinda's P.O.V

My eyelids slowly open, revealing the sparkling gloom of a place fit for kings. 

“Who knew a stranger like him would be my jolt back to life?” I said, biting my lower lip embraced his chiseled face.

His face seemed to call out to me, while every part of my body screamed his name — Jason. My lips ached for a magical kiss. 

“What the heck am I doing here, knowing that our worlds would never fit?” I whispered, a trail of sadness in my eyes. 

I slowly peeled off the soft white sheet, careful not to wake him with even the slightest movement.

I allowed my eyes to feast on the beautiful artifacts placed at different corners while grabbing the scattered outfits littered all over. 

As I touched the handle of the knob, a sense of regret kept flowing through me while I glanced back at my handsome stranger to be a forgetting memory. “It’s just a fucking one-night stand, Brinda. Get over him already,” my mind kept pounding, but my heart said something different. 

I quickly closed the door while my eyes embraced him for the last time, to a world of despair. 

— — — —

My legs dragged me home, weighed down by the hopelessness of not knowing what to do next. 

“Please tell me this is a joke. Like, why now? Arhhhh! I fucking hate my life!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, sighting all the debt notices scattered across my door. 

“This would definitely be the madness that I have foreseen without a job,” while my legs took charge of the letters. 

My hands ruffled through my bag, hoping I’d find a call for help to save me. “But who the fuck do I know?,” I muttered, my hands moving back and forth.

I kept on scrolling on my phone, hoping for a number, when a particular name caught my attention, which was wrong but my ticket to freedom. 

My eyes glared at the name: Sofie. She was the only one who would pull me out of this hell. 

Sofie has been my best friend since my parents died. She held me dear to her heart, but after I refused to quit the brothel — despite all her pleading — our bond cracked. 

“I hope she picks up,” I whispered, my fingers halting as the phone vibrated. 

Brinda: “H-ey, Sofie.” (My voice sounded broken). 

Sofie: “This is definitely a first,” she said, her sassy tone echoing in my ears. 

Brinda: “Are you alone?”

Sofie: (concerned) “Yeah. What’s going on? You sound—”

Brinda: “He slept with her.” 

(beat)

Sofie: “…Wait. Who?”

Brinda: “Brad, my fiancé.”

Sofie: “No. No way.”

Brinda (flat): “My sister.”

(Silence. A bulb kept flickering.)

Brinda (voice cracking): “I walked in and I saw them. She looked right at me… and didn't even flinch.”

Sofie: “Jesus Christ…”

Brinda: “I left everything. My bag. My ring. My whole goddamn life. He fucking dragged me out of his home like a slut.”

Sofie: “Okay, where are you? I’ll come get you.”

Brinda: “No.”

Sofie: “What do you mean, no?”

Brinda: “They’ll fucking find out everything. I can't run or break from this burden, not while I still owe the Madame.”

(She gripped the phone tighter, nails digging into her palm.) 

Brinda (barely above a whisper): “I’m going back.”

Sofie: “No. You don’t owe them a thing.”

Brinda: “I do. You know I do. They don't let girls like me just leave.”

Sofie: “Come to me. I’ll hide you. I’ll fight them if I have to.”

Brinda (quiet laugh, broken): “I used to think I was free… but I was just on loan.”

Sofie (desperate): “Please don’t go back there.”

Brinda (calm mixed with coldness): “Back then, before Brad, before the Madame’s chains tightened — I still had a choice.”

(I dropped the call and leaned my head against the soft pillow, allowing my tears to treat my fuck up.)

— — — —

Days blurred into weeks, each one heavier than the last. The idea of returning to the brothel haunted me like a ghost I couldn’t shake. I’d sit by the window every morning, hoping the world outside might whisper an answer to my confused, collapsing reality. My fingers pressed against my chest, half-expecting to feel it crack under the weight of everything I refused to say out loud.

And then, there was the nausea.

It started as a dull wave in my stomach, just enough to make me pause. I rubbed my belly absentmindedly, unsure whether it was hunger, stress, or something worse.

"I feel disgusting, even when I don’t try." I muttered under my breath, staggering to my feet.

The queasiness surged suddenly, a violent wave racing up my throat. I barely made it to the sink, slapping a hand over my mouth just in time. The floor tilted beneath me as I retched, the cold tile pressing against my knees.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" I gasped, gripping the edge of the sink like it could anchor me to some version of normal.

Sweat clung to my skin as another wave hit, and I emptied my stomach into the porcelain basin, my fingers shaking. When it was over, I stood there for a moment, breathless and hollowed out.

I knew I had to get checked out. Whatever was happening inside me wasn’t just some passing sickness. I couldn't return to that place—not like this. Not looking like a cracked trailer skidding toward a burning bridge.

The shower hissed to life, steam swirling around me as cold water hammered my skin. It shocked the sickness out of my pores, at least for a little while, numbing the dread that clung to me like second skin.

I stood beneath the spray until my limbs stopped trembling, then stepped out and reached for a towel. I didn’t bother with makeup or anything fancy. My fingers brushed over a few worn clothes until they paused on a slick black gown buried beneath a pile.

It wasn’t flashy. Just simple, tight in the right places, dark enough to hide whatever sadness clung to me.

I slipped it on.

It fit like truth.

And somehow, it matched the theme of my life.

— — — — 

 I sat on the cold plastic chair, arms crossed tightly over my chest, while the hospital ward was too bright, too clean—every flickering fluorescent light above me like it knew my world. 

I kept my gaze fixed on the scuffed tile floor, counting the cracks between the squares with the smell of antiseptic in the hospital — avoiding the sympathetic glances from the nurse behind the desk. 

My stomach churned—not from hunger, but from fear and the tiniest whisper of hope. “God, I can't believe I'm here for a pregnancy test after a stupid night with a bloody man”, I muttered, my fingers trembling and wet with tears. 

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, and my head snapped up. Every passing second stretched like elastic. I wished time would snap already and get it over with.

“Miss Brinda?” the nurse called gently, stepping into the waiting room with a file clutched in her hand. Her face wore a careful expression — the kind people use when they’re about to deliver bad news.

I stood, though it felt like the floor might give out beneath me. Every inch of my body trembled as I reached for the envelope. My mind was racing, conjuring a thousand outcomes—but deep down, some foolish part of me clung to the hope that everything was fine. That my life, however messy, would somehow remain intact.

The paper crinkled between my fingers as I slowly unfolded it.

Positive.

The word screamed at me in ink, louder than any voice could. My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, the room spinning into chaos. My vision blurred with tears.

How the fuck did you get pregnant, Brinda? I wanted to scream at myself. After everything you’ve been through—by a stranger?!

My fingers clawed at my hair as I hunched into myself, the weight of that single night crashing down like an avalanche. The tears came fast and relentless, blinding me.

Then—him.

Jason.

He was there, just beyond my haze of grief and disbelief, his tall frame moving toward me from the end of the corridor. Our eyes locked, and my chest ignited with a blaze of emotions—rage, sorrow, humiliation.

I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly I was on my feet, storming toward him, tears streaking my face.

“You… You're the girl from that night, aren't you?” his brows pulled together in confusion. 

My body flared with fury.

I slapped him—hard. The sound cracked in the air like thunder.

He staggered slightly, hand going to his cheek, his jaw tightening as he composed himself. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, adjusting his shirt with maddening calm. “If we weren’t in a hospital—”

“Don’t,” I hissed, voice hoarse and shaking. “Don’t you dare act like you have the right to be angry? My life is ruined, and you’re part of the reason.”

He blinked, stunned into silence.

 Then he noticed the paper clenched in my hand.

“What’s that?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“Why don’t you read it?” I snapped, holding it out like a loaded weapon.

He hesitated, then took it. His eyes scanned the page. 

“You’re… pregnant,” he mumbled, looking up at me like he’d just discovered fire.

I said nothing. I didn’t have to. The silence filled in the cracks between us.

Then, without warning, his hand wrapped around mine.

“You’re coming with me,” he said. His voice was steady. Final.

Before I could react, he was pulling me down the hallway, past nurses and patients whose stares burned into my back. I stumbled to keep up, still numb, still unsure whether I should fight or follow.

“Where are we going?” I asked breathlessly — my heart hammering in my chest.

He didn’t answer.

His grip tightened.

And suddenly, I wasn’t sure if I was being rescued—or dragged into a new kind of hell.