a onesie with a thick diaper

The shuttle’s hum was steady, but your pulse was anything but. Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your onesie, the soft fabric a small comfort against the storm of nerves and excitement churning inside you. The diaper beneath was thick, babyish, obvious. The edges peeked out from under the onesie’s snug fit, leaving no room for doubt. You looked like what you were: a little. A grown woman embracing the part of herself she’d spent years hiding.

Your breath hitched as you glanced around again, hyper-aware of every rustle of fabric, every shift in posture. Most of the women kept to themselves, their diapers hidden or subtly acknowledged. But then there was her, the woman in the Bluey shirt, her pacifier glinting under the shuttle’s lights, her pigtails swinging as she turned her head.

And then it happened.

Her eyes met yours.

A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. She didn’t look away. Neither did you. The air between you crackled with unspoken understanding, a silent question hanging in the space: Are you like me?

Your heart hammered. This was the moment. The first real test of who you’d be on Obasaan. The onesie, the diaper, the way your hands trembled, it all screamed the truth. There was no hiding now. Not that you wanted to.