Sissy Room

I hope this does not sound too corny. I am soo thankful that I can be as kinky as I want. If I am at home.. I can pee my pants all day if I want. I can poop in them if I want. I can let some fellow put his cock in my ass and fuck me till he cums if I want. I can suck him till he cums if I want. I can wear a diaper all day and make it my toilet if I want. There are alot more freedoms that my country offers other than the pursuit of happiness,  but on this fourth of July I am thankfull/

Chapter One Hundred & Eighteen: Part Nine The stage breathed in darkness.   Not silence.   Theater darkness was never silent. It held whispers behind the curtain. A cough swallowed in the balcony. The faint groan of old rigging above the lights. The restless shift of a full house waiting to be told when to feel.   Then the moon appeared.   Blue-white and thin, cut through with bare branches projected across the back scrim. Fog curled low across the floorboards, just enough to soften the path between two crooked trees. Somewhere offstage, a night insect chirped through the speakers with perfect, eerie timing.   The Maycomb woods stretched before them. Elegant. Artificial. Alive. Amber stood beneath the edge of the wash, her Scout costume stiff around her shoulders, the ham-shaped pageant outfit making every step awkward in exactly the way it was supposed to. Sweat gathered beneath the fabric. Her cheeks ached from concentration. The eyeholes narrowed the world to slivers of light and shadow. Beside her, Paul moved as Jem.   Not Paul pretending. Not Paul saying lines.   Jem.   Tall enough to guide her. Young enough to still believe bravado could hold back fear. His body carried that delicate tension between older brother and frightened boy, one hand reaching back toward her without making the gesture too obvious. Amber had seen him good in rehearsal. Tonight, he was better.   Opening night had done something to him.   The audience had disappeared for him in a way Amber envied. He did not chase their approval. He did not perform toward applause. He inhabited the dark road home as though the theater itself had become Alabama soil beneath his shoes. Her own thoughts should have been inside the scene. Scout’s fear. The scrape of the costume. The darkness ahead. Instead, they moved in fragments.   Marcus in the audience.    Marcus probably leaning back with that half-proud, half-possessive smile he wore whenever she did something well in public.   Marcus who had promised he would cheer louder than anybody.   Marcus who said South Carolina would love her.   The University of South Carolina. The garnet sweatshirt folded on her chair at home. The life waiting beyond this stage, beyond Bishop’s Gate, beyond all the tangled history with Paul Goldhawk. She was supposed to be thinking about her cue. She was supposed to be Scout. But Paul took another step beside her and the floor made a sound that did not belong.     Crinkle.   Amber blinked. It was soft. Brief. Gone almost before it registered. She turned her head slightly inside the costume. Paul continued forward, fully in the scene.   “What was that?” she whispered, but the line fit. Scout could ask that. Scout could be afraid.   Jem looked back. Paul’s eyes caught the moonlight.   “Don’t know,” he said, voice low and steady, threaded with tension. “Just keep walking.” Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Amber felt the audience lean in. Then another scent passed through the stage fog.   Faint. Sweet. Powdery. Baby powder.   Her stomach tightened. No. That made no sense. The theater smelled like dust, paint, warm lights, old velvet, and the faint metallic tang of anxiety. Not baby powder. She swallowed and pushed forward. The scene continued. Branches scratched. The sound design deepened. Paul turned at the precise angle they had practiced, putting himself between   Scout and the unseen danger. Amber’s focus snapped back.   This was why he was good. He made protection look instinctive. Not heroic. Reflexive. As if Jem’s first thought would always be Scout, even before himself. For one sharp second, Amber forgot Marcus. Forgot South Carolina. Forgot everything except the fact that Paul had become someone the audience believed could save her. Then she saw it. A flash at his chest. Something pale. Round. Plastic. Clipped to the inside edge of his costume where the collar shifted. Amber’s breath hitched. A pacifier. Oversized. Blue and white. Hanging from a short clip as if it had always belonged there. She blinked again. It vanished into shadow. Paul was still Jem. Costume intact. Jaw set. Hands open. Ready. Amber’s heart beat harder beneath the ridiculous pageant outfit. No. Keep going. Keep going. The attack came on cue. A rustle behind them. Paul turned. The stage exploded into movement. A shape broke from the darkness. The fight was choreography, but tonight it looked like violence. Paul twisted away from the first grab, shoved Amber behind him, and took the impact with a gasp so real the front row flinched. His body snapped sideways. The attacker’s arm hooked around him. Paul struggled, feet skidding across the boards. Amber scrambled.   “Jem!”   The word tore out of her, half character, half herself. Paul hit the floor beneath the center spotlight. Hard. Too hard.   His body folded with breathtaking precision, one arm trapped beneath him, breath knocked out in a raw sound that rippled through the theater. For one impossible second, Amber thought he had actually been hurt. Then she saw his hand. Just one subtle movement. The signal they had built in rehearsal. I’m okay. Keep going. The relief nearly ruined her. She threw herself toward him, Scout’s bulky costume dragging across the floor.   “Jem!”   The audience had disappeared. The lights burned hot above them. Paul lay in the circle of white, face turned toward her, every muscle arranged in pain. He was acting the scene to perfection. Better than perfection. He made injury look private. He made helplessness look like something Jem would hate being seen inside. Amber reached him and pulled his upper body into her arms. The move was not in the blocking exactly. Not like this. But it worked. It made the moment intimate. Devastating. Her throat tightened.   “You were incredible,” she whispered near his ear, too low for the microphones. “Paul, that was incredible.”   She expected the tiniest smirk. A breathless thanks. Maybe his usual murmured, told you.     Instead—The sound that came back was small. Wet around plastic.     “Tank oo.”   Amber froze. Not Paul’s voice. Not Jem’s. A toddler’s thank-you, lisped around something in his mouth.   “Tank oo, Am-buh.”   Her eyes dropped. Paul looked up at her from her arms. Not as Jem. As Paul. But wrong. Soft-eyed. Happy. Sucking contentedly on the oversized pacifier she had glimpsed earlier. The pacifier moved between his lips with a slow, rhythmic pull. His face glowed under the spotlight.   Pleased. Trusting. Little.   Amber’s arms tightened around him before she understood why. The theater shifted. The branches on the scrim stretched longer. The moonlight grew too bright. The audience, previously hidden in darkness, came slowly into view. One spotlight ignited in the crowd. Marcus stood in the aisle. He was not seated with the others. He was upright, grinning, one hand cupped around his mouth as if he were at a game instead of a play. Then he laughed.   Loud. Ugly. Triumphant.   “The FUCKING baby pissed himself!”   The words hit the theater like a thrown bottle. For one breath, there was silence. Then the audience came alive. Laughter rose in waves. Scattered first. Then swelling. A cruel, rolling sound that shook the velvet seats and rattled the balcony. Amber looked down.   “No.”   Her voice barely moved. Paul’s costume was changing. Not gradually. Not logically. The Jem shirt loosened, faded, vanished. The pants disappeared. The stage light sharpened until every detail became impossible to avoid. He lay in her arms wearing only a disposable diaper. Yellow-stained. Exposed under the same spotlight that had, seconds earlier, made him brilliant.   “No,” Amber whispered again.   Paul sucked on the pacifier. Unaware. Content. The laughter grew louder.   “No… no… no…”   Her voice broke.   “Nnno… no…”   She tried to cover him with her arms. The pageant costume would not move right. Her hands slid uselessly over air. Paul looked up at her, eyes wide and trusting, as though he did not understand why she was frightened. Then movement erupted from the wings. Martina ran out first. Then Lilly. Then Bryan. Each carried diaper bags. Not one. Three each. Overstuffed. Pastel. Cartoonish. They moved too quickly, smiling too brightly, voices overlapping in a syrupy chorus.   “Oh, pobrecito, we help you, mi principito.”   “Mommy’s here, sweetheart, Mommy’s going to get you nice and dry.”   “Daddy’s got you, buddy, nice clean change, okay?”   Their words tangled together. Baby talk. Comfort. Panic disguised as tenderness. They surrounded him. Hands reaching. Bags unzipping. Wipes appearing. Powder. Diapers. Bottles. Bibs. Rattles.   Amber held Paul tighter. No.   Not here. Not in front of everyone. Not under the lights. Not while Marcus laughed. Not while the audience transformed her friend into the thing he feared most.   She wanted to scream. Wanted to shove them back. Wanted to stand up and tell the crowd to shut up, tell Marcus to sit down, tell Lilly and Bryan and her mother that this was not helping, that every soft voice was another bar in the cage. But her mouth opened. And the words that came out were gentle.   Sweet. Awful.   “Awww.”   Amber heard herself coo. She looked down at Paul, still in her arms. Her own voice rose into a singsong that made her blood go cold.   “Awww, did Pauly make peepee in his diapees?”   Paul blinked happily around the pacifier. The audience laughed harder.   “That’s okay,” Amber heard herself say. “Aunty Amber will get you a changie, yes she will.”   No. No.   That was not her. That was not what she meant. She tried to stop speaking, but her voice kept going without permission.   “Yes she will, sweet baby. Aunty Amber’s got you.”   Paul smiled at her. The pacifier bobbed. Martina, Lilly, and Bryan leaned closer with their diaper bags. The spotlight widened. Marcus laughed until he bent forward, one hand against the seat in front of him. The stage beneath Amber began to tilt. The woods melted. The theater stretched. Paul grew heavier in her arms. Smaller somehow and heavier at once. The sound of laughter became crinkling. The crinkling became breathing. The breathing became—       Amber shot upright on the couch. A small shriek nearly escaped her mouth. Her hand clamped over it just in time. The living room snapped into focus around her.   Afternoon light. Pastel playpen. Silent television.   Plastic balls scattered near the rug. Her heart hammered so hard she felt it in her throat. She looked straight at the playpen. Paul was still asleep. Still covered beneath the pale-blue blanket. Still breathing. Still safe. The pacifier moved slowly between his lips. Suck. Pause. Breath. A faint crinkle sounded beneath it when he shifted. Amber did not move. Her hand remained over her mouth. Her eyes burned. For several seconds, she could not separate the dream from the room. The spotlight from the window. The audience from the quiet apartment. Marcus’s laughter from the blood rushing in her ears. Paul’s exposed terror from the sleeping figure in front of her.   He stirred. Just a little.   Amber’s entire body went rigid. Paul’s brow pinched. The pacifier pulled faster once. Twice. Then he settled again. Still asleep. Amber slowly lowered her hand. Her palm was damp. Amber stared at it for a second like it belonged to somebody else. The living room remained still. Paul had settled again, or seemed to. The blanket over him rose and fell with the slow rhythm of sleep. His pacifier moved faintly between his lips, not with the steady pull from earlier, but with smaller, restless motions that made Amber’s stomach tighten every time they paused too long.   She wiped her palm against her jeans. Once. Twice. Then forced herself to stand.   The couch cushion gave a soft sigh beneath her as she lifted her weight from it. She moved carefully, pink socks silent against the floor, each step placed as if noise itself might bruise the room. At the edge of the kitchen island sat her notebook. Deep purple. Bent slightly at the corners from being stuffed too many times into too many bags. The cover had once been plain, but Amber had never been capable of leaving blank things alone. Stickers crowded the front in bright, mismatched layers. A scratch-off My Little Pony logo near the top corner, half-shimmering where she had peeled it impatiently with a thumbnail months ago. Blossom from The Powerpuff Girls, arms crossed and expression fierce. Bananas. Cherries. Lemons. Watermelon slices. Tiny dollar signs in metallic green. A Katseye band logo placed at an angle because she had applied it while talking on FaceTime and refused to admit it bothered her. A glossy picture of Bad Bunny live in concert, lights exploding behind him. Wonder Woman in Gal Gadot’s face, sword raised, the sticker slightly worn at one edge from Amber tracing it during boring classes.   And the newest one—   The Gamecock logo of the University of South Carolina. Fresh. Sharp. Still uncreased. A future stuck to the same cover as childhood, music, money, fruit, superheroes, and every version of herself she had tried on without fully removing the last. Amber picked it up. The notebook felt heavier than paper should. She carried it to the kitchen island and set both hands flat on the stone counter. She leaned into it. Breathed in. Held it. Breathed out.   “Calm down,” she whispered.   The words barely left her mouth. Her right leg vibrated anyway.   A tiny, rapid tremor from knee to ankle.   She looked down. Of course. It had done that since she was a kid. Before dance recitals. Before oral reports. Before telling Martina she had broken the living room lamp even though the lamp had been ugly and everyone knew it. Her nervous leg. Paul used to call it her built-in maraca. A smile crept across her face before she could stop it. She remembered the 1st grade. Talent show auditions. Amber standing backstage with one knee bouncing so fast the folding chair beneath her clicked against the floor. Paul had looked down at her leg, dead serious, and said, “You know, if you just lean into it, we could put you in the show as a percussion act.”   She had kicked him….Lightly.   He had dodged dramatically. Then he said she should dance to “Hey Ya!” because she would absolutely win the “shake it like a Polaroid picture” section. Amber had told him that joke was lame. He had grinned like being lame had been the whole point.   Even now, the memory made her smile. Even now. After everything. That was what hurt. The Paul who made stupid jokes still lived somewhere inside the young man sleeping in the playpen. He had surfaced earlier in flashes, even through the fog.   "Am-buh toast."   A little voice. A silly joke. A ridiculous nickname born from avocado and trust. Little Paul had said it. But it was still Paul. That should have comforted her. Instead, it broke something. Because if Paul could still be Paul inside that state, then the line between who he was and what had happened to him was not as clean as Amber wanted it to be. He was not gone. He was not only trapped. He was adapting. Surviving. Maybe even laughing. The thought twisted hard.   Was he happier now?   Amber’s eyes went toward the playpen. No. The answer rose instantly. Almost angrily. No. How could anybody be happy in diapers? The thought came from fear more than knowledge, but Amber clung to it because the alternative was too complicated. If Paul could find real comfort inside the very things that humiliated him, then saving him would not be as simple as pulling him back to the version everyone recognized. But Amber did not want complicated. She wanted her friend back. The one who argued. The one who teased. The one who looked at her like she was capable of being better and worse than she wanted anyone else to know. She opened the notebook. The first few pages were ordinary. Lists. Passwords written in code only she understood. Song lyrics half copied, half invented. A sketch of the South Carolina logo with little hearts around it that she had pretended were ironic.   Then came the new pages. Messier. Urgent. Headings underlined too hard. PAUL / BISHOP’S GATE. Names of teachers. Drama department. Guidance office. Board members. Parents who cared more about optics than morality. Parents who might care about morality if optics forced them to. Amber had written possible plans in rushed bullets.   Talk to cast first. Get statements. Find out who saw what before fight. Ask Zach / Mitchell? Was there security footage? Social pressure? Petition? Press? careful Near the bottom of the page, one idea had been written in larger letters. WALK OUT?   Then circled twice. Then under it: Too much? Maybe not. Amber stared at that one. A walkout was dramatic. Risky. Probably impossible. Exactly the kind of thing Paul would have called “theater kid resistance cosplay” before spending twenty minutes helping make it better. She almost heard him. If you’re going to stage a protest, at least block it properly. Her mouth twitched. Then her eyes moved to the next page. There, in the center, surrounded by several arrows, was one name.   MARCUS   Underlined. Twice. Amber’s smile disappeared. The apartment fell away. The soft afternoon light shifted. The notebook blurred. And memory opened. Her room earlier. Same bed. Different hour.   Martina sat beside her, one leg tucked beneath her, shoes off, hair pulled back loosely. The door had been partly closed because Paul was napping in the living room then too, his little sounds occasionally drifting down the hallway like fragile reminders of why every word needed to stay quiet. The plate of patatas bravas sat between them. Brazilian lemonade sweating in tall glasses. Amber remembered the first thing she said because it had come out sounding younger than she wanted.   “Lilly told me a story.”   Martina had not reached for the food. She had looked at Amber fully.   “What kind of story, mi niña?”   Amber twisted the ring on the chain around her neck.   “About a man she loved before Bryan.”   Martina’s expression changed. Not surprise exactly. Recognition that some stories entered rooms before they were spoken.   “Ah.”   “She didn’t say everything.”   “She would not.”   “She said enough.”   Martina’s hand moved to Amber’s knee.   “Tell me.”   And Amber had. Softly. Unevenly. In English when she wanted distance. In Spanish when the feeling came too close.   “She said he was charming. Rich family. Everybody thought he was this… perfect Southern gentleman.”   Martina listened.   “She said little things changed first. Who she talked to. What she wore. How he made her feel guilty for embarrassing him.”   Amber swallowed.   “She didn’t say Marcus was like him.”   “No?”   “No.”   “But you heard Marcus anyway.”   Amber looked away.   “I don’t know.”   “Sí, you do.”   The softness in Martina’s voice made the words harder, not easier. Amber picked at a loose thread on her comforter.   “I hate when people do that.”   “What?”   “Make Marcus into a monster because it makes the answer easier.”   Martina did not flinch.   “I have not called him that.”   “No. But everyone looks at me like I’m stupid for loving him.”   “Not stupid.”   Amber’s eyes burned.   “Then what?”   Martina took a slow breath.   “Human.”   That had nearly undone her. Amber shook her head.   “He’s not just what he did.”   “I believe you.”   “I mean it, Mom.”   “I hear you.”   “No, you don’t.”   Her voice rose too much. Both women froze. From the living room, Paul made a faint sleepy sound. Amber covered her mouth. Martina waited until the apartment settled again. Then she said quietly, “Dime.” Tell me. Amber looked at the ring.   “He remembers things.”   Martina’s brow softened.   “When Dad left the second time after Paul was gone and right before High school, Marcus was the only person who didn’t act like I needed to get over it on a schedule.”   Her voice cracked despite her effort.   “He would sit with me outside after practice. He wouldn’t try to fix it. He just stayed.”   Martina’s face shifted at the mention of Jose without becoming bitter. Amber continued.   “He knows when I’m pretending. He knows when I’m about to cry before I know. He brings me the sour candy I like even though he thinks it’s disgusting. He learned how to braid my hair from a video because I sprained my wrist sophomore year and refused to ask you.”   Martina smiled faintly despite herself.   “He did?”   “Badly. It looked terrible.”   The smile faded.   “But he tried.”   Amber nodded.   “He tries with me.”   “Does he try with others?”   The question landed gently. Still landed. Amber looked away.   “That’s not fair.”   “It is very fair.”   “He’s not… warm with everyone.”   “No.”   “He can be defensive.”   “Sí.”   “And jealous.”   Martina said nothing. Amber’s jaw tightened.   “But he’s also loyal. And when he loves you, he loves hard.”   Martina reached for her glass, the ice shifting softly.   “Sometimes people love hard because they do not know how to love gently.”   Amber’s eyes flashed.   “That doesn’t mean they can’t learn.”   “No.”   Martina set the glass down.   “It means you must ask whether they want to.”   Amber had no answer. Martina touched the ring on Amber’s necklace with one finger, not lifting it, simply acknowledging it.   “Marriage is not only who makes your heart race.”   “I know.”   “Do you?”   Amber looked at her mother. Martina’s voice stayed low, English and Spanish braided together the way it always became when the truth mattered most.   “Mija, forever is not a pretty word for a ring. Forever is mornings when you are both tired. It is sickness. Shame. Money. Family. Anger. It is seeing the ugliest part of someone and asking, can this soul still choose care?”   Amber’s throat tightened.   “Marcus can be good.”   “Yes.”   “He is good to me.”   “Sometimes.”   Amber flinched. Martina’s face filled with pain.   “I do not say that to hurt you.”   “It does.”   “I know.”   Silence sat between them. The music from someone’s apartment below thumped faintly through the floor. Martina continued.   “Lilly told you her story because she wanted you to look. Not run. Not obey. Look.”   Amber whispered, “She scared me.”   “Good.”   Amber’s eyes snapped up. Martina did not apologize.   “Fear is not always bad. Sometimes fear is a little candle God gives you before you walk into a dark room.”   Amber let out a broken laugh.   “That’s very Catholic of you.”   “And true.”   Martina squeezed her knee.   “You do not need to decide today whether you marry Marcus.”   Amber closed her fingers around the ring.   “But I need you to decide something.”   “Yes.”   “What?”   “Who you become while loving him.”   The words entered quietly. Stayed.Martina leaned closer.   “Are you kinder with him?”   Amber swallowed.   “Sometimes.”   “Are you braver?”   “Yes.”   “Are you crueler?”   Amber’s eyes filled. She thought of Paul. The argument. The table. The words that had come from her mouth.   “Yes.”   Martina nodded slowly.   “Is he kinder because of you?”   Amber wanted to say yes. Immediately. Defensively. But the answer caught.   “I don’t know.”   “Is he more empathetic?”   “He can be.”   “Is he good when goodness costs him?”   Amber looked down. Martina’s voice softened further.   “I am not telling you no. I am your mother. I want to. Believe me.”   Amber gave a tearful smile. Martina smiled back, then continued.   “But this is not mine to forbid. You are a woman. You must take stock of him. Of yourself. Of the two of you together.”   She brushed a damp tear from Amber’s cheek.   “Ask if your souls are capable not only of passion, not only of loyalty, but of care. Forgiveness. Goodness.”   Amber cried then. Quietly. Not the dramatic kind. The kind that slipped out because holding it in began to hurt more than letting it go.   “I love him,” she whispered.   Martina pulled her close.   “I know, baby.”   “I don’t want everyone to be right about him.”   “I know.”   “I don’t want Paul to hate me.”   Martina held her tighter.   “Paul is hurt.”   “That’s not the same thing.”   “No.”   Amber’s voice broke.   “What if I already chose wrong?”   Martina kissed the top of her head.   “Then you choose again.”     The memory began to dissolve. Her mother’s voice blurred. The room softened into sound. Soft cries. Whimpers. Sobs. Not all from the memory. Some from now.   Amber blinked.   The purple notebook lay open under her hands. Her chilled glass of Brazilian lemonade sat beside it, condensation sliding down the side. She picked it up without thinking, then set it back down against the kitchen island with a soft clink. The sound seemed too loud. A small sob answered from the living room. Amber’s head snapped up.   Paul was awake. Wide awake.   He was kneeling on both knees inside the pastel playpen, the adult-sized blanket fallen around him in a soft heap. His hair was matted from sleep, sticking slightly to one side of his forehead. His eyes were wet and confused. A few tears had already escaped, leaving shiny tracks down his face. The pacifier remained in his mouth, tilted slightly, moving with each uneven breath. He looked around the room as though the walls had changed while he slept. Then his gaze found Amber. His voice came small around the pacifier.   “Daddy?”   He swallowed.   “Mommy?”   Another tear fell.   “Martina?”   Amber stood frozen behind the kitchen island. Her notebook remained open to Marcus’s name. Her ring was still on the nightstand. Her mother was behind a closed door. And Paul was looking at her as if she might be the only person left in the world who could answer. Amber’s right leg started shaking again. She lifted one hand slowly from the counter.   “Hey,” she whispered.   Paul’s eyes fixed on her. Amber stepped out from behind the island.   “It’s okay.”   The playpen gate stood between them. Pastel panels. Soft colors. A barrier that suddenly looked too much like a question. Paul sniffled around the pacifier.   “Am-buh?”   The name landed differently now. A plea. Amber’s throat tightened. She moved closer. Slowly. Carefully.   “I’m here.” Amber moved toward the playpen like every step had a memory attached to it. Paul watched her from inside. His eyes remained wet, though the worst of the panic had begun to fade now that he recognized someone in the room. His breathing still hitched every few seconds around the pacifier. The blanket had fallen behind him in a loose heap, leaving his bare shoulders and chest exposed above the waistband of his jungle-print footed pants. Paul lifted both hands toward her. Eager. Open. Expecting. The gesture struck Amber with more force than if he had recoiled. She had imagined this moment a dozen different ways since Martina’s request. Paul crying. Paul confused. Paul rejecting her because somewhere beneath the fog he remembered Marcus, the argument, the old wounds they had given each other with surgical precision. She had not prepared for him to reach a second timd. Amber stopped just outside the pastel gate. The panels created a boundary no higher than her thigh, something Paul could easily step over if the adult part of him wanted to. But he did not.   In this state, the enclosure was not a cage.   It was permission.   A place where the world made sense because someone else had made it smaller. Paul’s hands remained extended. Amber knelt in front of him. Just close enough to see the tear caught near his cheekbone, the damp shine beneath his lashes, the way the pacifier shield moved slightly with each uneven breath.   “Paul,” she whispered.   He blinked at her.   “Come on.”   Her voice trembled before she could steady it.   “It’s me. It’s Amber.”   His fingers flexed toward her.   “Remember?”   She heard the pleading in her own voice and hated it.   “Please. Snap back to yourself. Please.”   For a second, hope appeared. Not in him. In her. A foolish, desperate little flare. Maybe the name would do it. Maybe the adult Paul would push through the fog, embarrassed and sarcastic and wounded, and say something awful just to prove he was back. Maybe he would blink hard, look around, and ask why she was kneeling in front of a playpen. Maybe this would become a story she could tell herself later. The time he almost disappeared, but Amber called him back. Paul stared at her. The room held its breath. Then he leaned forward and filled the silence with the only answer he had.     “Am-buh.”     Muffled. Small. Certain. He reached farther.   “Am-buh.”   The hope in her eyes broke. Not loudly. Not all at once. It simply collapsed inward, leaving behind something softer and much more frightening. This was Paul. Not all of him. Not the part she wanted to drag up by force. But still him. Needing something she had the power either to give or withhold. Amber’s throat tightened. She opened her arms. Paul surged into them. The hug was immediate and tight. His bare chest pressed against her camisole-pink top. His arms wrapped around her neck with surprising strength. His pacifier pushed awkwardly against her shoulder as he buried his face there, breathing in little shuddering pulls.   Amber froze for one second. Only one.   Then her body remembered what kindness was supposed to do.Her arms closed carefully around him. Not squeezing his ribs. Holding. Paul melted into the contact. Amber closed her eyes. This was the surrender she had been fighting.   Not surrender to the idea that Paul was gone. Not surrender to the state as permanent.   Surrender to the reality that the person in her arms needed comfort before he needed a rescue plan. Her friend was not a campaign. Not a protest. Not a page in her purple notebook. He was warm. Trusting her. And if she kept begging him to become someone else before she helped him feel safe, then she was not saving Paul. She was abandoning the version who had shown up. Amber swallowed hard.   “I’m here,” she whispered.   Paul’s hands tightened briefly.   “Am-buh hewe.”   “Yes.”   She pressed her cheek lightly against his hair.   “I’m here.”   He stayed there for several breaths. Then lifted his head. His tears had slowed. The pacifier moved again, calmer now. He looked at her with expectation returning in small pieces.   “Pway?”   The word was soft behind the pacifier. Amber almost laughed. Because her body did not know what else to do with the ache. Martina had asked her to do exactly this. “If he wakes up, think about getting into the playpen with him and play as best you can.” Amber drew in a breath. Then put on an exaggerated smile so bright it nearly hurt.   “Okay.”   Paul’s eyes widened.   “Pway?”   She tried to make her voice playful.   “We can play.”   He clapped once. The sound was muffled by bandaged palms but joyful. Amber stood. The gate looked smaller from above. Still, something about crossing that boundary made her pause. Outside the playpen, she could pretend to supervise. Inside, she would be participating. No distance. She lifted one leg carefully over the pastel panel, then the other, and stepped onto the padded mat inside. The floor gave slightly beneath her socked feet. Soft. Too soft. Unstable in a way that made the room feel different. Paul watched her with fascination, as if she had just entered his kingdom.   Amber lowered herself cross-legged onto the mat. The second she sat, something hard pressed against her. She shifted. A toy truck had been sticking out from beneath a blanket directly behind her. Amber yelped softly and pulled it free. A bright yellow Tonka-style dump truck. She stared at it. Paul giggled. The sound came small at first, then grew when he saw her expression. Amber felt heat rise into her cheeks.   “Do you think that was funny?”   Paul giggled louder.The pacifier bobbed.   “Fuh-ny.”   Amber narrowed her eyes at him. Paul laughed again. Not the old backstage laugh. But the joy beneath it carried the same rhythm. The same spark. Amber felt it and nearly lost her composure. She set the truck beside him. Then noticed again that he remained shirtless. The blanket had slipped entirely away now. His jungle-print footed pants covered his lower half, but the absence of the vest and shirt made him seem freshly woken, unguarded, smaller in posture if not in body.   “Do you want to get dressed?”   Paul’s smile faded. He shook his head quickly.   “No.”   “It might be warmer.”   “Nooo.”   He crawled backward a few feet, retreating not in fear but preference, as though clothing had become one more transition he did not want. Amber raised both hands.   “Okay. No shirt.”   He watched her carefully. Waiting for pressure. There was none. Something in his face relaxed. Then he turned and crawled toward a pile of books near the corner. His movements were awkward but determined. He shifted between toys, blankets, and balls until he found what he wanted. He returned with two coloring books clutched against his chest. One had Disney heroes on the cover. The other featured zoo animals. He dropped them in front of Amber with great importance.   “Pitty pitchuh.”   Amber looked at them.   “You want to color a pretty picture?”   Paul nodded hard.   “Pitty.”   He pushed both books toward her. Amber’s smile became less forced.   “All right. You pick.”   Paul stared at the covers as if she had presented him with a legal dilemma. His brow furrowed. His fingers tapped the Disney heroes first. Then the zoo animals. He looked at Amber. She waited. No rush. No correcting. No deciding for him. Paul finally shoved the zoo animals book forward.   “Zoo.”   “Zoo it is.”   He clapped.   “Wion!”   Amber flipped through the pages until she found a lion spread across one side, a flamingo standing elegantly in shallow water on the page beside it. Paul pointed with excitement.   “Wion! Wion!”   “That’s a very serious lion.”   Paul accepted this. He grabbed a crayon. Yellow. Of course. Amber took pink for the flamingo. They leaned over the book together. Paul worked with deep concentration, his tongue pressing slightly behind the pacifier, coloring as neatly as his little state and bandaged hands allowed. The yellow wandered outside the lines in places, but not wildly. He corrected himself each time, slowing down, pressing softer, trying. Amber colored the flamingo pink. She stayed inside the lines at first. Then caught herself. Was she really competing with a regressed eighteen-year-old over a flamingo? She loosened her grip. Added orange. Then purple along the feathers because well just becvause she thought it looked stunning forf a toddler themed coloring book. Paul looked over. His eyes widened.   “Pitty.”   Amber glanced down at the flamingo.   “You think so?”   He nodded solemnly.   “Pitty birb.”   “Thank you.”   She meant it more than she expected. They colored until the silence stopped feeling fragile. Then Paul abandoned the lion mid-tail and grabbed two toy cars. One red. One blue.   “Wace.”   “You want to race?”   He held out the red car to her. Amber took it.   “Fine. But I should warn you, I’m undefeated.”   Paul’s eyes brightened. She dragged the cars to one side of the playpen and lined them up near a row of blocks.   “Ready?”   Paul leaned forward.   “Seddy.” “Set?” “Set.” “Go.”   He pushed his car with everything he had. The blue car shot forward, clipped a stuffed lamb, and flipped onto its side. Amber’s red car rolled three inches and stopped. Paul stared. Then burst out laughing. Amber gasped theatrically.   “Sabotage.”   Paul threw himself back against a pillow, giggling. The sound filled the living room. Light. Ridiculous. Alive. Soon, the game became less race and more chaos. Cars crashed into blocks. Batman had to rescue a dump truck from a pile of plastic balls. A soft ball rolled back and forth between them until Paul decided every successful catch deserved applause. Amber stacked sensory blocks into a tower, careful and precise. Paul watched with growing excitement.   “Big.”   “It’s a skyscraper.”   “Sky-skwaper.”   Paul crawled to retrieve the plush Batman and positioned him at the top. Amber added one more block.   The tower wobbled. Batman tipped. Paul gasped. Amber made a dramatic swing sound and caught Batman before he fell. Paul shrieked with delight.   “Bat-man fwy!”   They colored another page. Then another.Amber found herself giving voices to the animals before she could stop. Paul accepted each one with complete seriousness. The elephant sounded like an old British professor. The monkey wanted snacks. The giraffe claimed to be royalty, which Paul insisted meant Long Knight was his cousin. At some point, Paul patted around the mat and found his teal plastic bottle. Empty. He held it toward Amber.   “Dwink?”   Amber hesitated. Then remembered Martina saying he had been fed and changed. A drink seemed safe enough.   “What do you want?”   Paul pointed toward the kitchen.   “Yummy.”   She followed his gaze. The Brazilian lemonade. Of course. Amber stood, stepped carefully over the gate, and filled the bottle with some of the chilled lemonade from the pitcher in the fridge. She paused before bringing it back.   Should she dilute it? Was he allowed more? Would Martina be annoyed? Would the citrus upset his stomach?   Why was she thinking of him like an actual infant, he was eighteen years old from a physical standpoint. Amber quickly stepped back over the gate as Paul reached for the bottle with both hands. The moment he tasted it, his eyes widened. He fell backward dramatically onto a pillow, bottle still in his hands, sucking down as much as he could manage before Amber hurried closer.   “Slow down.”   Paul ignored her for two more swallows. Then released the spout with a satisfied sigh.   “Yummy.”   He patted his stomach.   “Yummy in tummy.”   Amber pressed her lips together. Do not melt. Do not melt. She was still going to fight for him. That remained true. She was still going to get names, statements, leverage, pressure. She was still going to make Bishop’s Gate remember that Paul Goldhawk was not a problem to be packaged and mailed away with an honorary diploma. But for the first time, a complicated truth pushed gently against her certainty. Paul looked happy. Not fixed. Not healed. Not the version she wanted back under stage lights. But happy. Less stressed. His shoulders were loose. His breathing easy. His eyes bright when the world stayed small enough for him to understand.   Maybe this was not the enemy. Maybe this was not the thing stealing Paul. Maybe, short term, it was something his body and mind needed because everything else had become too much.   Amber did not like that thought. But she did not reject it as quickly as before. If this helped him survive the next hour, the next afternoon, the next breath— She could stop fighting it long enough to be present.   Paul rolled onto his bottom and began bouncing. Small, rhythmic movements. The blanket crinkled beneath him. The television, still low in the background, shifted into an old episode of Barney. Purple dinosaur. Bright songs. Unreasonably cheerful children. Paul’s face lit up. He bounced again, the soft crinkle sounding each time. Then he began singing along around the pacifier which replaced the now empty bottle once again. The words were unclear. Sweet. Half-mumbled.   “Yoo wuv meee… I wuv yoo…”   Amber stared. A strange nostalgia opened inside her without warning. Not for Paul.   For herself. For being little enough that songs could be true because the adults singing them promised they were. For bouncing on her father’s or Bryan’s knee while he laughed and pretended she was too heavy.   Her body remembered before her mind did. The upward movement. The safety of hands around her. The ridiculous joy of being lifted and caught. For a flicker of a second, Amber almost joined in. A craving moved through her. Not a need. Something softer. The desire to return to an age when comfort had been simple.   When her father had not left. When Marcus had not become a question. When Paul had not been hurt. The thought shifted.     Wet. Wait.   Amber blinked. She was not wet. Her body went cold. The sensation was not from memory. It was from the mat. Her gaze dropped. Paul had been bouncing in the same spot for several minutes. A small darker patch had appeared beneath him. Not large. But unmistakable against the soft play surface. Amber’s hand moved before she decided to move it. She touched the patch lightly.   Wet. Warm.   Her breath caught. She looked at Paul. Still bouncing. Still singing. Still smiling at Barney. Then she saw the back of his jungle-print footed pants. Damp spreading across the seat. His diaper had leaked. For one suspended second, the room emptied of sound. The television became distant. Paul’s song blurred. Amber’s heartbeat rose into her ears.    Amber’s gaze snapped to the hallway.   Martina’s door stayed shut, her voice buried behind it in calm, professional Spanish, separated from this room by twenty feet and an entire world of things Amber did not know how to do. Amber’s right leg started trembling again. Paul turned his head toward her, still smiling.   “Am-buh sing?”   The question nearly undid her. She looked at the wet patch. Then at his face. He did not know yet. Or if he did, the little fog had hidden the shame from him for now. Amber realized she had only seconds before her reaction taught him what this moment meant. Disgust. Panic. Fear. Or safety. She drew in a breath so shaky it barely counted.   “Paul.”   Her voice came out soft. He stopped bouncing. The crinkle ceased. His eyes searched her face. Inside the playpen, Paul shifted again, and the sound beneath him changed from playful crinkle to something heavier, wetter, real. His face crumpled with discomfort.   “Wet,” he mumbled around the pacifier, frightened now. “Am-buh… wet.”   Amber sat frozen in the pastel shadow of the gate, one hand suspended over the blanket, and felt the whole room narrow to his trembling voice, the damp spot beneath him, and the terrible intimacy of being trusted when she was not ready.   Then the truth arrived like a spotlight she could not step out of.   If Martina did not come through that door, Amber was going to have to change Paul herself.

If you want balance you shouldn't aim for incontinence. You should just wear diapers when you want to, and not wear them when you don't or can't. Incontinence doesn't come with balance, it's an everyday chore.

"Oh i don't mind watching a movie on disney plus and umm no i think i can manage with getting food" i move off to get some pizza and then rejoin on the couch. "I would like that alot to be shown around the town i never been here before so it would be nice to see where different stores are and umm to make see if any place would be hiring at all so i could work part time will i go to school". I look to you as i was really enjoying myself having someone to talk to after being on my own alot. "So what new things do you like to try? and for me well i like playing games, read, sometimes i like to find different kinds of crafts and activities to do as i find it relaxing and i like all sorts of music and movies too.".

I like sitting and laying down on My back after making a poopy in my nappy.