Chapter 1
I had a horrible stomach ache this morning. The kind that sits in your lower abdomen like a knot of pressure and just won’t budge. It wasn’t sharp enough to make me panic, but it was uncomfortable enough to make me wince every time I took a step. Like someone had coiled a thick, invisible rope inside me and was tugging it tighter every time I tried to breathe normally. I could feel the weight of it pulling everything downward, like my organs were sinking in quicksand.
I wasn’t expecting this. There were no warning signs the night before—no greasy food disasters, no forgotten deadlines, no late-night anxiety spirals. I didn’t even dream. I just woke up feeling awful. And of course, today had to be the field trip. The one I had actually looked forward to.
When I signed up for it, everything felt totally fine. No stomach issues. No second thoughts. Just curiosity. I remembered sitting in my dorm a couple weeks back, aimlessly checking my email, and spotting the message: Field trip to the American Writers Museum. I clicked without thinking twice. The name alone tugged at something in me. Maybe it was the word “writers.” Or maybe it was just the chance to go somewhere beyond my usual routine. I had no Friday classes anyway, and I didn’t want to spend another free day wasting time in my room, watching daylight drift by like it didn’t care I existed.
A trip to downtown Chicago seemed like a decent excuse to do something slightly more adventurous than folding laundry or catching up on discussion boards. I needed that. Something small, but meaningful. Something different.
So I signed up. No hesitation. No cramps. Just excitement.
According to the email, our trip would start on the NIU R12 bus to Elburn, then we’d hop on the Metra train that would take us into the city. If we had our own car, we could drive to Elburn directly. But I live on campus, and I don’t have a car, so the NIU bus it was.
I got up early—around 6:00 a.m.—even though my stomach already felt a little off. Nothing major at first. Just a dull discomfort that I thought would pass after brushing my teeth and drinking some water. I gave it time. But by 6:30, the pain had started to settle into something more stubborn. I dressed slowly, pausing between layers to stretch my back or press gently into my lower abdomen like that might trick my body into letting go.
By the time I walked out the door around 7:00 a.m., I was regretting everything.
The bus always arrives early, and I knew it’d take me a while to get to the pick-up point, so I forced myself to keep moving. Even though every step felt like I was dragging a sack of wet sand behind me. When I finally got there, the parking lot was empty—just the big white NIU bus and the driver, leaning against the front wheel and scrolling through his phone.
For a moment, I thought about standing around outside. Maybe if a few more people showed up, we could all awkwardly huddle together and make light conversation. A little pre-trip meetup. But that idea lasted all of five seconds. My stomach had other plans. Another wave of pain hit me out of nowhere, making me freeze mid-step. I climbed onto the bus instead, clutching my side as if I could physically hold the ache still.
Normally, when I get these kinds of stomachaches, I faceplant onto my dorm bed. That usually helps—something about the pressure against the mattress eases the pain. But obviously, faceplanting wasn’t an option here. The best I could do was slide into one of the front seats and lean forward slightly, breathing through it, willing myself not to throw up or pass out.
At home, I’d drink hot water. My mom always said it helps with stomach pain. And sometimes, it really does. I brought a thermos of warm water with me just in case. I took a few sips. No change. The knot in my stomach didn’t even flinch.
A little while later, two other girls got on the bus. I overheard their names—Grace and Serena. Freshmen, they had answered when I asked them. If I hadn’t been in so much pain, maybe I would’ve offered a smile or told them that if they needed anything on the trip, they could ask me. My dad always says I should make more friends, that I should “put myself out there.” But in that moment, all I could do was manage a tight nod before returning to my slightly hunched position.
I wish I could say the pain started to ease as more people boarded. That the distraction of new voices, shuffling footsteps, and backpack zippers gave me something else to focus on. But it didn’t. It just lingered, humming like background static behind every second.
Eventually, our chaperone—or professor—climbed on board. She was cheery, full of that early morning energy I usually find admirable but today just felt like a contrast to how utterly drained I felt. She greeted everyone, smiled at me as she passed by, and then stood at the front to take attendance.
I debated telling her about my stomach. I didn’t want to seem like I was complaining, but I also didn’t want to faint on the Metra or ruin the whole trip for myself and others if things got worse. So when she reached my name, I quietly told her I wasn’t feeling well and that I wasn’t sure what was going on.
She tilted her head sympathetically and said,
“You might be so distracted by the city and the museum that you won’t even notice it.”
I nodded. I wanted to believe her. I really did. Maybe if I pretended hard enough, I could trick myself into enjoying the trip. Maybe the ache would fade away like a bad dream after sunrise.
She moved on to finish attendance, and I tried to breathe through the next wave of discomfort. Deep breaths. Inhale through the nose. Exhale slowly through the mouth. The kind of breathing they teach in yoga classes or mindfulness apps. It helped… a little. Enough to make me think I could survive this.
I listened as she called off our names and recognized one other name—Jocelyn. She had responded to one of my discussion posts a few weeks ago, complimenting my analysis during our song unit. I never responded to her reply. I didn't have to and I didn't know her at the time since the class in online and it's asynchnous which means we don't meet at all. It’s funny how hard it is to talk to someone in real life, even when you’ve already had a tiny bit of interaction online.
Anyway, she will meet us at Elburn. And for a split second, I thought maybe—just maybe—I’d get a second chance to say something. But again, my stomach reminded me that I wasn’t exactly in peak socializing condition.
By the time we were ready to leave, the bus was still pretty empty. The 3:45 bus this afternoon is going to be packed for those going home over the weekend. The sun had barely risen beyond the horizon, casting a soft orange glow across the pavement. It should’ve felt like the start of a fun day. A little adventure. A break from the normal. But all I could feel was that stubborn, curling ache in my gut.
The driver started the engine, and the vibrations rattled through the floor and up my legs. We rolled forward slowly, leaving campus behind. I leaned my head against the window, watching the trees blur past, trying to focus on anything but the pain. Maybe the professor was right. Maybe once we got to the museum, I’d be too caught up in the exhibits, in the words and legacies of great writers, to care about the ache still twisting inside me.
I wanted that to be true.
I wanted to forget the pain and just be present.
But for now, I just sat there—quietly, hopefully, hurting.
And the bus drove on.
