it starts at the hospital, the knot in the pit of kira's stomach whenever anyone else holds the baby. she clutches the tiny infant to her chest when she takes her back, crying tears of absolute joy even as the worry already sets in. she's too small, too fragile, the world is far too big and uncertain.

you're just still bonding everyone says, when she hesitates to put her down or to pass her over to other out-stretched hands, and while that's true it's not entirely accurate. the weight of protecting this little one settles over kira like a second skin before she even realizes it, and only thickens as the weeks go on. she apologizes again and again for monopolizing the opportunity to rock her to sleep and looks constantly for validation that a newborn can't be spoiled by being held too much. with the baby nestled in one arm, kira ardently scours the internet for approval in her knowing (because it's so much more than a feeling) that it's best to hold her, to carry her, to keep continual contact.

it's the weight on her chest that keeps her awake at night, even when she's already exhausted from a day of trying to settle a fussy infant, wanting desperately to keep this tiny piece of her heart made physical as perfectly happy as can be while running through life in a new city, in a new home, with a circle of new people. and she does stay awake, even when it means pretending (though she hates thinking of it that way) that she's asleep while her fiance finally has his chance for quiet time, bonding time with their daughter, while she fights every nerve that screams for her to get up and take the baby back into her own grasp, no matter how absolutely wonderful he is with her. it forces her out of bed when he's finally drifted off, just to rest a hand on her tiny little chest, checking and double checking and triple checking that she's still breathing.

it's a wave that washes over her the moment she's out the door, that this isn't right, that she can't possibly leave her baby alone. (even though she is very clearly not alone at a few weeks old, that she is in the perfectly capable arms of her father, who loves her more than anything in the world, who would never let anything happen to her.) the crash of anxiety is so strong that she nearly turns right back around, but the idea of wiping the smile from her fiance's face at rejecting this incredibly sweet gesture keeps her on her way. kira wrings her hands in the back of the taxi on the way to the salon, is uncharacteristically reserved and quiet as the stylist washes, then cuts and styles her hair, worrying the entire time about what is going on at home. what she might be missing. if her daughter is missing her. she may not have carried her for nine months, but she's carried her almost nonstop since, and her arms feel uncomfortably empty with her absense. she's always wanted to be a mother, but never thought this is what it would feel like. no mother she's run into has talked about separation anxiety like this, guilt so heavy at doing one small thing for herself that it sends her crying in the back of a taxi in sheer relief that she'll be home soon.

kira brushes it off that she's always been incredibly sensitive, overly sensitive, crying at the drop of a hat. that anyone would be stressed with a newborn and a big move and a house hunt. she puts a smile on her face and tells people that she's just exhausted, as all new parents are, but she feels fake knowing she didn't contend with the rush of changing hormones and growing body. she's said so many times in the past year that she's overwhelmed, but in the best way, and while that is undoubtably true now that she's a wife to be and a mother, things she's always dreamed of, she's just plain overwhelmed. and it feels a bit like failure.