People Live Here: JUNE - CATSNRATS

✨ Content is free—but birds like snacks.

Waiting rooms weren’t build for weirdos like us. Good.

JUNE - CATSNRATS

The Judson Women's Health Clinic parking garage gleams—a polished slab of order. Too clean. Too perfect. No oil stains, no crushed cans, no stray receipts skidding across the pavement. The kind of place that expects you to behave.

I pull in. The tires roll smooth, no resistance.

Inside the parked cars, nurses sit with their windows rolled up, screens glowing in their faces. A thread of vapor curls from an exhale. The passenger is buried in the wax wrapper of a quarter-pounder, biting, chewing, swallowing, a ritual. Magenta scrubs, the color of healers.

The building rises ahead—three stories, brick and beige, wrapped in evergreens. The air smells like damp bark and old air-conditioning.

I don’t want to go in.

But I do.

The waiting room is alive with forced quiet.

Chairs curve inward, cradling bodies that sink into them, absorbing their weight, their waiting. The vinyl creaks under shifting limbs. The smell of antiseptic crawls up my nose, coats the back of my throat. Too clean. Too controlled. A lie.

I keep my hands over my stomach.

I don’t like the way my body reacts in places like this. A tightening. A preemptive defense. You don’t want to think about the types of fluids people drag through here.

The man next to me scratches a psoriasis patch on his wrist. Flakes drift through the air, catching the light like dust motes.

I force my gaze elsewhere.

Pamphlets line the walls: Fetal Development. Postpartum Depression. When to Call for Help. Neatly stacked. Controlled information. A roadmap for the way this is all supposed to go. I scan the titles, feeling nothing.

This is not the kind of place for people like me.

I feel the weight of their eyes before I see them.

A man scrolls on his phone—at me.

A man near the vending machine studies me, brows pulled in tight, trying to understand. A mother whispers something to her child. An office type sits stiff, his tie drawn too tight, tracking the ink on my skin like he’s trying to make sense of it, like it’s a code he wasn’t given access to.

I feel all of it.

I shift. A small movement.

Their eyes scatter—to the floor, the walls, the indifferent television. But I know better. Their attention is a swarm. The moment I settle, it lands again. Flies on flesh.

I move my hand across my stomach, covering the golden eye tattooed on my arm.

Near the reception desk, a woman leans in to whisper something to her husband. He keeps his gaze locked ahead. The man with the phone adjusts his grip—still at me.

I know I should ignore it. It’s nothing new. But my skin tightens, my pulse ticks against my throat. I want to say something. A sharp tsk. A middle finger. A slow, deliberate stare.

Not now.

Beside me, Jack leans in, voice low.

"We’re the weird ones?"

My lip twitches. I don’t reply. My fingers press into my belly, the golden eye hidden away.

Then the door swings open.

The receptionist calls my name.

Cold air clamps onto my skin the second I step inside. Not real cold, not natural cold. The kind that lives in clinics, hospitals—places designed to preserve, not comfort.

I rub my palms over my arms, but it doesn’t help. The goosebumps are already there.

The room smells like sterile nothing. Like the medical-grade cleaners Jack uses to wipe down his tattoo tray. No trace of the bodies that came before me, no proof of anything human. Scrubbed out. Erased.

The nurse is already here, perched on a rolling stool. Purple scrubs, sleeves pushed up, a lotus tattoo curling over her forearm. Her mask hides half her face. She doesn’t look up when we enter—just types, fingers rattling against the keyboard. Click, click, click.

I step onto the scale, watch the red digits flicker and settle. She scribbles something down. A number. A fact. A piece of me that doesn’t belong to me anymore.

"Go ahead and sit right up here," she says, nodding toward the paper-lined table.

The crunch of it under me sends a pulse of irritation up my spine. It’s all too familiar.

Jack takes the seat in the corner, hands loose on his knees, unreadable. The nurse doesn’t waste time. The questions fire off, clipped, rehearsed. "Full name?" "Date of birth?" "Any allergies to medication?"

Medical history. Prior pregnancies. Pre-existing conditions. Each word flattens the air, drains it.

Then—

"Any history of depression? Anxiety?"

I hesitate. The room waits.

"PTSD."

The nurse nods like she expected it, like she already knew. The screen blinks, a box checked. Just data now.

She reaches for the blood pressure cuff. "Let’s check vitals real quick."

The Velcro crackles. The pump hisses. My arm tightens under the squeeze. The machine beeps.

"Healthy blood pressure. Good pulse."

Jack grins, holds up a hand. I slap my palm against his. It’s a dumb, private thing, but it breaks something loose.

The nurse doesn’t react. Just unfastens the cuff, turns back to the screen. Jack leans in again, mutters, "We’re the weird ones."

I let out a small, breathy laugh. The kind that isn’t really about anything. The kind that just needs to escape.

The nurse logs off.

"Doctor will be in shortly."

And then she’s gone.

Silence swallows the room.

I exhale, rolling my shoulder where the cuff bit into my skin. The paper under me crackles as I shift. Jack taps his fingers against his knee, lost in the same heavy stillness.

I inhale, ready to say something—

Knock, knock, knock.

The door swings open.

And everything else comes next.

The door swings open, and Dr. Reiner steps in like a man on autopilot.

Hair slicked back, mask pulled snug, clipboard in one hand, pen in the other. The weight of  endless repetition hangs in his posture. The kind of doctor who’s said the same things so  many times, he doesn’t hear himself anymore. 

He doesn’t look at me right away—just at the chart. Click. Flip. Click. 

"June," he says, nodding at the page instead of me. 

I tuck my hands between my knees. "Yeah." 

"How are we feeling today?" 

I hate that question. It isn’t real. It isn’t for me. 

"Fine," I say. 

He nods like that’s all he needs, flips the page. The pen taps against the clipboard—a slow,  steady metronome of clinical routine. 

The room tightens around me. 

"Your chart says you're eating plant-based?" 

I nod. 

"Dairy?" 

His eyes lift from the page just enough. 

I already know where this is going. 

I tighten my fingers just a fraction. "No dairy." 

A pause. A breath. A quiet disapproval that doesn’t need words. 

"Are you taking B12?" 

"Yes." 

"Daily?"

"Yes." 

Click. Tap. Click. 

"Any additional supplements? Iron? DHA?" 

"I get what I need through food." 

I glance at Jack. He tilts his head slightly, a small, knowing smirk. He already hates this guy. Dr. Reiner doesn’t react. Just nods, flips another page. "I really wish you’d drink milk." Jack shifts in his chair. I feel the heat of it before he even speaks. 

"Calcium isn’t just in milk," he says. 

Dr. Reiner’s gaze slowly lifts from the clipboard. "Is that so?" 

Jack leans forward, elbows on his knees. "We eat plenty of leafy greens, almonds, tofu— whole cultures go their entire lives without dairy. No deficiencies, no issues." 

A pause. A blink. The slow weight of condescension settling in. 

"Mmm-hmm," Dr. Reiner hums. Then, with barely a pivot, he turns back to me. 

"Especially during pregnancy, milk is one of the most complete sources. Protein, calcium,  vitamin D—it’s all there." 

Then he hands me the brochure. 

Expecting Mother’s Dietary Guide. 

I stare at it. This piece of paper. This fucking paper. 

I know what he wants. To see me cave. To make him comfortable. 

I take it anyway. "Okay." 

He chuckles—a soft, hollow sound.

"My wife tried veganism once. Lasted a week before she started dreaming about  cheeseburgers." 

The joke hangs. A lonely, desperate thing, waiting for someone to pick it up. I don’t react. 

Dr. Reiner clears his throat, straightens his clipboard. 

"Alright, then. See you in a few weeks." 

Click. Flip. Click. 

The file closes. The door swings shut. 

Silence. 

I don’t look at Jack. I look at the door. 

My fingers release the paper. 

Jack exhales through his nose, voice flat. "We’re the weird ones." 

I nod, barely. 

Yeah. We are. 

I don’t move. Neither does Jack. 

The paper sits limp in my lap, edges curling where my fingers pressed too tight. It’s just  paper. But it feels like something else. Like compliance. Like letting the moment pass  without a fight. 

Jack shifts. "You took the fucking paper." 

I push out a slow breath. Not a sigh. Not an answer. Just an exhale. Then I stand. I don’t wait. 

Jack follows.

The nurse’s station is empty. The hallway is too quiet. The whole building feels thin, like the  walls could peel away and show something hollow underneath. 

My boots hit the tile harder than they need to. 

Through the waiting room, past the curved chairs, past the bodies that sink into them,  waiting for their turn. The woman with the phone is still watching. Still tilting it. 

I don’t look at her. 

I don’t look at any of them. 

I feel their eyes. I feel the way they take without asking. The way their stares cling like  cobwebs, sticky and unseen until you try to brush them off. 

I press my hand over my stomach again. 

The doors hiss shut behind us. 

Cold air slaps against my skin, but it doesn’t clear the feeling. The clinic smell lingers— antiseptic, metallic, institutional. The scent of places where people think they know what’s  best for you. 

Jack keeps pace beside me, quiet. Letting me have the silence. 

Halfway to the Jeep, he clears his throat. "You wanna throw that away, or should we litter  dramatically?" 

I stop walking. 

The words on the page glare up at me. Expecting Mother’s Dietary Guide. Like a fucking manual. Like instructions for a machine. 

I fold it once. Twice. My jaw locks. 

Then I rip it down the middle. 

Again. Again. 

Jack watches the pieces scatter across the pavement. Then he grinds one under his boot.

"Nice compromise," he mutters. 

The weight in my chest doesn’t lift. But it shifts. 

Jack nudges my shoulder. "You hungry? Reiner’s wife lasted a week. You could be next." I let out a sharp breath—not quite a laugh, not quite not one. 

Jack opens the Jeep door. Waits. 

I don’t press my hand to my stomach this time. 

I just get in. 

Jack drives. I stare out the window. 

The lines on the asphalt flick past, the movement hypnotic, rhythmic. The Jeep hums  beneath us, steady, a machine with purpose. Unlike me. 

The clinic is behind us. But I still feel it. The weight of it. The air in that room, thick with  assumptions. The way the doctor’s voice settled over me like a verdict. 

Jack drums his fingers on the wheel. Casual, but I know him. He’s chewing on something. "You wanna talk about it?" 

I don’t look away from the window. "No." 

"Cool." He adjusts the rearview. "You want me to talk about it?" 

I let the silence stretch. It should be uncomfortable. It’s not. 

Then I shrug. "Sure." 

Jack exhales through his nose. A small, knowing sound. He doesn’t start right away. He lets  the road have its say first. 

Then— 

"I hated that guy."

It’s flat. Absolute. 

I let out a sharp breath. Not quite a laugh, but something close. "I could tell." Jack nods like, Good, you should’ve. 

"Like, I get it," he continues. "Doctors are doctors. They have their protocols. But that guy?  That guy wasn’t even listening to you. He was listening to himself talk." 

I say nothing, but my fingers twitch against my thigh. 

Jack glances at me. "You noticed it too." 

Of course I did. 

The clipboard. The way he didn’t look at me until it was relevant. The way he pivoted so  easily away from what I was saying, back to what he wanted to say. 

He heard what he expected to hear. He saw what he expected to see. Not me. Just a patient. Just a category. Just another fucking chart. 

Jack taps the wheel, exhaling. "He wasn’t trying to help you. He was trying to win." That. 

That’s the thing that’s been sitting in my chest like a stone. 

I grip my thigh, pressing my nails into my jeans. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stay in  my body. 

Jack doesn’t push. He just drives. 

The sky is overcast, that dull kind of gray that makes everything feel like waiting. "You hungry?" he asks eventually. 

The question pulls me out of my head. I roll my shoulders, shake out my hands. The weight  shifts—not gone, just different.

"Yeah," I say. "Starving." 

Jack grins. "Reiner’s wife lasted a week, June. You could be next." This time, I actually laugh. 

And it doesn’t feel stolen.