Did Malcolm Do This?

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I kept replaying the past few weeks, trying to pinpoint exactly when things started shifting. The discomfort. The constant leakage. The bleeding. The pressure. It had all crept up on me, little by little, until it was impossible to ignore. And I had ignored it—brushed it off, convinced it would pass.

But now? Now I was lying here feeling like I had to take the biggest shit of my life, and one name kept running through my head.

Malcolm.

It wouldn’t be the first time I walked away from one of our sessions feeling wrecked. And knowing him, he’d probably smirk if I even suggested he had something to do with this. But this? This wasn’t just soreness or the usual aftermath of too much of a good thing. This felt wrong. Like my insides were coming apart in pieces. And yeah—I’d been staring at it. In the toilet. In my underwear. Trying to make sense of what the hell was happening.

Dr. Serena wasn’t amused. The second I told her what was going on, she shut down any notion of “waiting it out.” Her tone was blunt, her words sharp:

"Look, I know you like to act like you’re invincible, but your body just sent you a red-alert warning, and you’re trying to treat it like a yellow light. No, ma’am. This ain’t just some ‘Oh, I overdid it’ situation. Something is off, and we need to check it before it turns into something serious."

She wasn’t wrong. My body wasn’t reacting like this for no reason. Even if Malcolm had set it off, this had been brewing. And it was time to get checked—for inflammation, possible tearing, or something worse.

And while she didn’t say it outright, the message was loud and clear—I had let Malcolm push my limits too far, too often. He might not have been the reason, but he damn sure wasn’t helping.

My body needed rest. It needed time. It needed me to listen.

So, for now?

Malcolm is officially benched.