After the call, I can’t sit still. My body’s still, but my mind won’t stop. The words, the smiles, the subtle jabs hidden in advice—they echo louder than they should.
My chest feels tight, and all I can think about is time. How long it’s been. How irregular everything still is. How badly I want answers.
Almost without thinking, I reach for my phone and open the fertility app. I log the date, tap “high stress” in the emotions tracker. A soft chime follows, and the app suggests breathing exercises—gentle prompts to inhale, exhale, calm down.
I try. It helps, but not enough.
I need more. More clarity. More control. Something to hold onto.
I open my laptop and lose myself in forums—long threads, scattered usernames, stories from women in every time zone. Some sound just like me. Others remind me how different every journey is. Still, the ache behind their words feels familiar.
I make an account. Start typing. I don’t overthink it—I just let the words come.
Not even ten minutes later, replies start rolling in. Kindness from strangers. Shared tips. Messages like little lifelines.
Someone links to a meditation app designed for women navigating fertility. I download it right away. The voice is soft, steady, guiding me through images of my body as strong, open, whole. It’s strangely comforting—like I’ve been holding my breath and didn’t know it.
Then I stumble onto a site offering therapy sessions with counselors who get this—who know the language of basal temps and cycle tracking and the grief that comes from waiting. Before I can talk myself out of it, I book an appointment.
Hours pass like minutes. When I finally glance at the clock, it’s almost midnight.
My phone buzzes. A reminder to log my basal body temperature. I enter the number without hesitation, watching as the app builds another layer of graphs and predictions.
Another notification pops up, but I swipe it away. I’m already deep in a thread about PCOS and success rates—scrolling, reading, absorbing.
"Mai?" Anh’s voice catches me off guard. I jump a little, turning to see him standing in the doorway, worry written all over his face. "Em đã xem máy tính hàng giờ rồi. Có chuyện gì không?" (You've been on the computer for hours. Is everything okay?)
I glance down at my laptop—multiple tabs open, charts glowing on one screen, a forum thread halfway through on the other. My phone buzzes again beside me. "Em… Em không biết nữa," (I'm... I'm not sure,) I say quietly. "Nhưng em cảm thấy mình đang làm diều gì đó. Giống như em đang được kiểm soát, anh hiểu không?" (But I feel like I'm doing something. Like I'm taking control, you know?)
He walks over and sits next to me, eyes scanning the sea of windows open in front of us. "Nhiều thông tin quá," (That's a lot of information,) he says gently. "Em nghĩ nó có giúp ích được gì không?" (Do you think it's helping?)
I pause. I’m not sure. "Bằng một cách nào đó, có. Nó khiến em cảm thấy ít cô đơn hơn, ít… tổn thương hơn." (In a way, yes. It makes me feel less alone, less... broken.) I murmur, gesturing toward the screen. "Tất cả những thứ này, nó giúp em hiểu được những gì đang xảy ra trong cơ thể mình. Giống như… giống như em đang hợp nhất với công nghệ, trở thành một điều gì đó còn hơn cả chính em." (All of this, it helps me understand what's happening with my body. It's like... like I'm merging with the technology, becoming something more than just me.)
Anh nods, slowly. He doesn’t argue, but the crease between his brows deepens. "Chỉ là đừng để bản thân em bị cuốn vào những dữ liệu này, được không? Hãy nhớ, em không phải chỉ là những con số trên màn hình." (Just don't lose yourself in all this data, okay? Remember, you're more than just numbers on a screen.)
I lean into his shoulder, the adrenaline of the evening crashing all at once. I didn’t notice how tired I was until now. "Em biết. Nhưng ngay lúc này, cảm giác như đây là cách duy nhất mà em có thể đối phó. Giống như công nghệ này là một phần mở rông thêm của em vậy." (I know. But right now, this feels like the only way I can cope. It's like the technology is an extension of me now.)
Suddenly, my phone buzzes—sharp and insistent. The screen lights up with an alert, and I grab it, heart already racing.
"FERTILITY WINDOW ALERT: Peak ovulation predicted. Optimal time for conception is NOW."
I gasp, the realization hitting all at once. I’ve been buried in graphs and messages and symptom logs, so deep in the digital world that I almost missed the moment we’ve been waiting for.
"Anh," I say, breathless, the words tumbling out. "Chúng ta cần phải vào phòng ngủ ngay bây giờ." (We need to go to the bedroom. Now.)
He blinks, confused—then I see it click. "Ồ! Đấy là…?" (Oh! Is it...?)
I nod, already getting up, already tugging him toward our room. "Ứng dụng nói rằng đây là cơ hội tốt nhất của chúng ta. Chúng ta không thể bỏ lỡ nó." (The app says it's our best chance. We can't miss this window.)
As we rush down the hallway, part of me wants to laugh. This is what it’s come to—an app sending us to bed like it’s scheduling a meeting. But if this is what it takes, if this is how we inch closer to the future we’ve been chasing... then okay.
I set my phone on the nightstand, its screen still glowing—ovulation charts, fertility windows, little digital predictions blinking softly in the dark.
As Anh and I fold into each other, I close my eyes and whisper a quiet thank you—not to the universe, but to the code, the numbers, the quiet machinery that somehow brought us here.
This is what trying looks like now. Apps and sensors, medications and timing. Romance rewritten by reminders and algorithms.
But in his arms, all of that fades.
His touch, the warmth of his skin against mine—none of it can be charted. None of it needs to be.
Whatever else technology has changed, this—us—is still beautifully human.