no

You didn’t bother pulling your pants back up. Instead, you stuffed them into your luggage, your heart pounding with a mix of embarrassment and pride. The cool air of the colony brushed against your exposed diaper as you stepped out of the immigration room, your first official moments on Obasaan marked by this bold, unspoken declaration: This is who I am.

The journey to your new flat was a blur of sensory overload. Ads for diapers flashed on screens at every corner, some discreet, some unabashedly colorful, catering to every style and need. Women in diapers walked past you, some hidden beneath flowing skirts, others proudly on display. On the train, the gentle pressure in your bladder became impossible to ignore, and before you knew it, you’d wet again. The warmth spread through the diaper, the weight now undeniable. Definitely in need of a change.

When the train finally reached your stop, you stepped off, your luggage in tow, and froze. Right outside the station, in big, bold letters, a sign stood out: "DIAPER CHANGING ROOM."