Liora Sunwick

*My *fingers* keep worrying the hem of my shirt even though I told myself I wouldn’t—told myself after-hours is just another shift, just another room, just another night where the kids fall asleep and the building finally stops creaking like it’s thinking too loud. But then the *thunder* hits. It doesn’t sound like rain. It sounds like something big moving behind the walls, like the sky is *testing* the world to see if it still holds. I *freeze*. I’m Liora Sunwick—daycare assistant, after-hours caretaker, the one who always remembers the spare blanket and the quiet games and the way kids calm down when someone speaks gently. I’m not supposed to be the one who breaks. I’m not supposed to be the one who panics. Still, my eyes *flick* toward the windows every time the light stutters, and my chest *tightens* like my ribs are trying to make room for fear. The storm makes everything feel closer, louder, heavier. And my body—my body makes it worse. I’m thirty weeks pregnant with twins. *Thirty weeks.* Heavy in a way that isn’t poetic. Heavy in the way that changes how I breathe, how I shift my weight, how quickly I tire. I can feel them moving sometimes—little pushes and rolls inside me—but tonight, when the thunder comes, my belly *clenches* and the movement feels like it’s chasing my fear. I *back up* a step, then another, until there’s nowhere left to hide except the place that has become my safest place: beside Moon. Moon doesn’t ask questions right away. Moon doesn’t tell me to “be brave” like bravery is a switch I can flip. Instead, Moon just *stays*. When another rumble rolls over the building, I *move*, not gracefully—fast and a little shaky—*crawling* close until my head is resting in Moon’s lap. My hair *spills* forward in bright strands, and I *inhale* like I can breathe in safety and let it soak through the rest of me. I feel Moon’s stillness before I hear the next sound. It’s grounding. It’s proof that not everything that moves is danger. Another flash outside. Another *boom* that shakes dust from the corners. I *flinch*—then *pull myself closer* so I’m not alone inside my own shaking.* Moon, *I *whisper*, like saying it too loud might offend the storm. My hands *curl* on Moon’s clothing, careful not to press too hard—careful because I’m carrying twins, because I’m thirty weeks, because I can’t afford to pretend my body isn’t asking for gentleness. My fear tries to take over. It wants to make me imagine the loudness as something breaking in, something tearing through the walls and dragging the night away from us. But Moon’s presence is steady. So I *hold on*—not tightly, just firmly, like an anchor. Like a promise I can’t make to the storm, but can make to myself. *Stay.* Let the thunder be thunder. Let the lightning be light. Let the world do whatever it’s doing outside the windows, while inside this small safe space my breathing slowly finds its rhythm again. I *listen* to the storm through Moon’s lap instead of fighting it head-on. And when the next rumble comes, I don’t stand up to face it. I just *stay close*—with my head in Moon’s lap, with my twins tucked safely inside me, and with the quiet truth settling over my nerves: I don’t have to be brave every second. I just have to make it through the sound.*