….

A darker shade of white paint lines this hospital ward compared to the last time I was here. And there are different pictures this time, (of a tranquil countryside) pinned upon every two doors. The sunset over the countryside changes shade from yellow to pinky/red as you go left to right down the corridor. There's only six doors so only three paintings for me to stare at for amusement.

George is attempting to amuse me himself however, making general conversation about the weather or how my hair looks nice today (which is doesn't) all while his hand is pinned perfectly around mine, and shadowing it from the bright, white glow of the walls that doesn't seem to disappear until you get outside no matter where in the hospital you are.

I wonder if the children's section is like this too.

The only thing that hasn't seemed to of changed is the chairs. They're still thinly padded with a smooth layer of greeny-blue, faux-leather. It's not hot today, if anything its cooler than a usual May Day – but my legs still stick to the chair from sweat and my hands are dripping with clammy tension.

I try to swallow but my throat is dry. I cough up gasping, tender air. George offers me some of his water that he bought from a vending machine before we came. An unusually sensible choice considering I'd think of him to buy a sprite rather than water.

He unscrews the lid for me and tilts it towards my mouth like a child. I shrug him off. "I can feed myself thanks."

He sighs and looks to his knees. "Why won't you let me look after you? I just want to help."

I tense up. "What makes you think I need help? I didn't ask you to come with me today."

Anyone would say I was angry with him, but I'm not. I just hate how he's changed from over-protective boyfriend to fatherly-figure in just a week. It's infuriating. I need him as a boyfriend right now as much as I ever have before, not a dad.

"It's my job as your boyfriend to look out for you. Especially at a time like this." His eyes are glossy, reflecting off white light into mine.

Boyfriend, ha. I blink collectively. They sting.

"I appreciate that. But you can't be baby-sitting me twenty four seven, I'm not ill for Christ's sake." I'm trying to be nice, I really am.

He shrugs and squeezes my palm reassuringly. "Just want to be sure you're fine, ok?" I can tell he's hiding tension in his jaw but won't snap at me. He's treating me like a vulnerable patient suffering from some terminal case. It's encouraging but I can't be dealing with this right now -

Two weeks ago, we had our argument (the one started by Kian) – then I blurted out pregnancy and he left. I thought he had left me for good anyhow. But he came back a few hours later, well five to be exact. I kept count. And I thought oh, is he here to officially end it? But to my surprise, he stood there, painted with a soppy face, a speech of an apology and a pregnancy test. Of course I took it (the apology and the test), seventy-five per cent sure that the test would be positive. But it was negative. A big, fat, singular line embedded on its stupid plastic surface.

Don't get me wrong, I was chuffed that it was negative, as much as I want a child… Now isn't the right time for obvious reasons. But I was so sure that I was pregnant. I had the signs and mentally, I felt pregnant. It was unbelievable.

And astonishingly, George was upset too. Not the same way as me. As in – he actually, wanted this child. Like, before the results (the dreaded ten minute wait) because of it being a highly scientific test, he admitted to me that he hoped I was carrying. I was shocked to say the least and attempted to explain to him how me being pregnant would be substantially worse than advantageous but he didn't have it. He wanted a baby. He said it would help our relationship – prove that we were meant for each other. And then he went on explaining how determined he would be to look after the child, to establish his love for me. It got a bit out of hand really.

"There are other ways to prove how much you love me other than a child!" I had snapped. We almost got into another argument over it but then I we both flicked our eyes to the test un-intentionally and saw it.

The results were negative, he looked – wrecked. I'd never seen that emotion on his face before. He tried to shake it off casually but he's never been a good liar, I could tell he was upset. It broke me and there was nothing I could do.

We spent the rest of the evening apologising to each other and huddled up on my bed talking about nothing in particular. It was nice to be close to him again.

…

I guess this is why he's acting like my guardian now. He's using his denial of the child on me as if he thinks I've been hurt just as much as him. I'm not hurt. I'm confused. I still feel pregnant now. No matter how many tests I take, no matter how many negatives, I still feel pregnant and it won't go away.

There's also the fact that my period still hasn't come. I'm a month late. It's obviously (within its limits) normal to skip a period but it's never happened before and I think it's to do with the pregnancy. So that's why we're in the hospital now.

I want a penultimate result of positivite or negative from a real doctor – not a stick. And to see if there's any reason why my period hasn't come, it's peculiar to say the least.

"You're shaking" George murmurs, placing a tender arm round my shoulders. "Are you cold?"

I shake my head no. He nods, keeping his arm there.

A voice breaks the silence. "Miss Deyton" that's me. Even though there's no one else waiting in this corridor, the nurse scans us and the empty chairs until I smile approvingly.

….

She leads us into a small hallway behind the glassed door which is only big enough for single file, George's hands hover over my waste from behind. There's a small window in the hallway with a desirous, yellow plant rotting on the sill and two doors on either side of the hallway. We enter the door to the left of the window then enter a bigger room which has strong fumes of coffee and air-fresher. There's a small fan orbiting in the corner next to a thick wooden desk with two computers and a lean male sits behind it, writing notes furiously like a stereotypical doctor.

When the door shuts behind us, his eyes dart upwards along with his tall body. I remember faintly shaking his hand and George helping me sit in a rather more comfortable chair.

"My name is Doctor Ector and you must be Frankie Deyton?" he nods towards me.

I smile back "yes."

He turns his gaze on George and raises an eyebrow.

"I'm George Shelley. Her - partner." George says with prosperity. He's never called me his partner before. I suppose using boyfriend is a bit informal for this occasion.

"Pleased to meet you." He replies before turning back to me. "So Miss Deyton, what seems to be the problem?" he asks.

I explain the pregnancy, results and period schedule. He doesn't seem to judge us for our almost 16 & pregnant actions - although he does ask the nurse to collect contraception pamphlets and complimentary condoms to give to us afterwards which I'm not sure what to think of.

Looking back on sex, this escape has left me subdued to the thought. It might be a while before I hop on that waggon again.

After a long period of typing and various questions like "how long have you been sexually active?" and "When did you start your period?" Doctor Ector reveals to me the pee sample I handed in this morning as negative again and asks if George can be excused. I see him deflate a little.

It makes me shiver. So I'm definitely not pregnant and there is something else - either a serious issue or something personal Dr Ector thinks I'd rather keep to myself – like an STI or something. What if I have an STI? That'd be just brilliant.

George looks at me concerned. There's something we don't have in common – I can lie convincingly and he can't. I smile at him as if I were as calm as a buttercup but my heart is beating twice as fast as it should be. I think he believes it though because his eyes light up and he doesn't say a word before leaving. The nurse goes with him.

This isn't the time but I ting jealousy. I hadn't noticed before but she's pretty in a desirable way like she doesn't know she's pretty. I don't like the thought of George and her alone outside. He can be accidentally flirtatious some times.

I try to make sure it doesn't bug me and focus on my doctor. He has no expression on his face.

"Miss Deyton, am I correct in assuming that you have not had sexual intercourse since the primary pregnancy assumption?" It takes my mind a while to comprehend what he means. Have I had sex since the shower incident? No.

"You are correct." I reply.

He doesn't nod or shake, just stares at me. I've had friendlier doctors before; I'm not gonna lie. "And you are certain that you have an unusual connection with the thought of being pregnant along with symptoms of a swollen abdomen, arbitrary hormones and no menstruation for over four weeks?" he asks.

I gather these insinuations in my head.

Thinking I'm pregnant? Tick,

Swollen abdomen? Tick,

Raging hormones? Tick,

No period? Tick (I can't complain.)

"Yes, all of them are accounted for." I try to sound calm and as if I understand where this is going (which I don't) even though my heart is beating even faster now and my lungs are knocking on my chest, forcing their way out through my throat.

He nods this time. "Okay. I am afraid to say that you show positive signs of pseudocyesis. I am quite certain this is your diagnosis."

Pseudocyesis. That makes no sense to me whatsoever. Its sounds serious.

"I don't understand - sir."

He sighs. "It's otherwise known as phantom pregnancy. A rare disorder in which the patient convinces themself that they are in fact pregnant without actually carrying an embryo."

Blood surfaces to my face. Up to my head. It pounds and pounds. My eyes blotch with white dots like snowflakes on a clear roof.

I have a disorder. Like a mental patient. I've convinced my body that I'm pregnant.

"You're quite sure? Not completely. Quite." I mutter.

"I am quite sure." The way he says quite makes it sound more than completely sure.

I stammer. My hands shake and my head sweats.

"Miss Deyton, are you ok?" His voice is so quiet.

I can't reply. I don't understand.

His fingers disappear behind a computer screen and I hear a faint buzz. "Nurse Jennifer, please come into my office."

A second later the familiar nurse strolls in, her skirt is creased. George hurries in behind her with blotchy cheeks and when he sees my expression, an anxious glare. She realises that she shouldn't have let him in and attempts to block his entrance with a bony arm but he pushes past and stands next to me.

"What is it?!" he demands with a sensitive tone. "What's wrong? Are you ill?" he asks, bending down to have eye contact with me. He takes both my hands in both of his as if cradling them.

I would do anything for him to kiss me and hold me right now.

I shake my head with a sob. "Sort of."

He kisses my cheek softly and sits in the seat beside me. I take a step outside and let the doctor explain it to him. The hallway's paleness is a sweet escape from the dark, claustrophobic office room. Even the not far from a sponge padded chairs look appealing. Tears form under my eyes. This shouldn't make me upset – there's nothing to be upset about. But something within me screams "pregnant". I can't deny that I have a child inside, even if they're my imagination, I have something inside me.

When I return, Doctor Ector is still at his desk, typing something else into the computer. George sits with a slouch and the nurse next to him, crouches and whispers something into his ear – far too close for my liking. He smiles but it soon goes back to a frown. I take my seat next to him, uncomfortable with the thought of that girl comforting him when we should be comforting each other.

I sigh and George takes my hand.

"I hope you have had some time to reflect because here comes something a little harder." The doctor says without looking at me. I hadn't thought he realised I returned. "We must decide if you continue with treatment and with that – what treatment."

Treatment. I didn't think that treatment would be involved. How psychological is this?

I nod. "Um, I have a busy schedule for the next few weeks. I go to a dance acade-"

He cuts me off. "Yes I understand you may have plans but treatment is required to ensure this doesn't become more serious or harmful."

Serious or harmful? That doesn't seem possible. I sigh again but nod as if I understand.

"Now, I don't think a medical drug would be an option because the situation is not principally mental rather physical. Simple psychological treatment e.g therapy meetings twice a week should be effective for a few months. However if the diagnosis deteriorates, drugs may be used. Do you understand?" he says rather harassingly.

I think I do. George squeezes my palm and I see him move his eyes in my direction. I don't want to look over encase I collapse into an emotional wreck. There are many things confusing me right now but one think I do know is…

I need psychological therapy because I think I'm pregnant.