Great big tears spew out of me, forming rivers with the snot I can no longer be bothered to wipe away. I can’t stop sobbing and my breath is short and shallow. The world is awful. Climate change. Donald Trump. Lockdown. It’s all just so pointless and in the middle of this vacuous existence is me, on my bed, crying into a pillow and refusing to leave my darkened room.


“Shall we check your app?” my partner asks, wrestling my phone out of my hand. “Ah, yeah. Your period’s due in a few days.”


PMS was never something I suffered with, and I confess that, previously, I didn’t really understand when friends would forego nights out or weekends away because their period was due. But a year on from a miscarriage, I’m struggling.


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