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MidReal Story
The Pregnant Dads
Scenario:In a world where men can get pregnant. In Poland, a girl named cascada, whose last name is stone, is a 18 year old girl who lives with her single mom viola. Cascada mom is letting a 20-year-old Japanese boy who was basically homeless live with them. The boys name is akira, and he is thirty-seven weeks pregnant but doesn't get a big belly. Cascada quit school. Cascada thinks akira is lying about being pregnant cause he isn't showing. Cascada lives in a rich household
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Cascada Stone
She is a 18yearold high school dropout living with her single mother, Viola. She is rebellious, curious, and independent. Cascada is surprised and confused when she discovers Viola bringing home a pregnant man, Akira, and learning that men can get pregnant. Cascada's mind is filled with questions, skepticism, and shock as she navigates this unexpected revelation. Her close relationship with Viola is challenged while dealing with new circumstances.
Akira Matsumoto
He is a 37weekspregnant Japanese man who defies conventional appearance with a flat stomach. He is reserved, grateful, and introspective. Akira finds himself in an unlikely situation living with Viola and Cascada after being turned away from his family's home due to his pregnancy. He maintains a quiet demeanor but shows appreciation for Viola's kindness and support. His pregnancy serves as a catalyst for selfreflection and acceptance of his identity.
Viola
She is Cascada's single mother and a wealthy heiress. She is freespirited, nurturing, and unconventional. Viola defies societal norms by raising Cascada on her own and providing her with the freedom to make her own choices. When she brings home Akira, a pregnant man, she demonstrates her openmindedness and willingness to challenge traditional roles. Her decision to support Akira and Cascada's new reality reveals her unconventional nature and deep desire for inclusivity.
I was eighteen years old and had quit school.
My mom, Viola, was a single parent who didn’t really care about my dropping out of school.
She let me do whatever I wanted, as long as I wasn’t hurting anyone.
I was grateful for that.
Not many parents would do that.
I’d been living with my mom ever since I was born.
She was wealthy and didn’t really need to work.
But she did anyway, because she got bored at home.
She worked as a part-time real estate agent and earned enough to keep us above water.
I loved her for being so freespirited and unconventional.
I could do whatever I wanted, as long as I didn’t disturb her when she was sleeping.
One day, I came home from running errands for her and found a strange boy in the house.
He was sitting on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table.
There was a TV dinner in front of him, and he was watching TV.
He looked like he hadn’t showered in days.
He had a big backpack sitting next to him on the couch.
I immediately knew that he was not from around here.
I stood in the doorway, watching this stranger make himself at home.
He had dark hair that fell messily over his eyes.
He reached for the remote control, and that’s when I noticed he was doing something odd.
He started rubbing his flat stomach in slow circles, like pregnant women do.
But there was nothing there to rub.
His shirt was tight against his torso, and there was no sign of a bump.
I cleared my throat loudly, making him jump.
He quickly pulled his hand away from his stomach and looked guilty.
When our eyes met, I noticed the dark circles under them.
It looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days.
I watched as he continued to rub his stomach, but now it was like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
He rubbed in slow circles, like he was trying to protect something inside.
When he shifted his position on the couch, he did it inch by inch, like he was trying not to jostle anything inside.
As he moved, his backpack fell off the couch and landed on the floor with a thud.
But he didn’t reach for it.
Instead, he placed both hands gently on his belly and closed his eyes.
The whole scene was surreal.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching this strange boy and his odd behavior.
Suddenly, he gasped and pressed harder against his stomach.
His eyes flew open, and he looked at me with a wide-eyed expression.
He beckoned me over with his hand, speaking in broken English.
"Come feel - baby moving!"
I hesitated for a moment, but his earnest expression made me take a step closer.
Before I could react, he grabbed my hand and placed it on his stomach.
I was about to pull away when I felt it - a distinct flutter and bump against my palm.
I yanked my hand back, startled.
"What... what is that?" I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looked at me, eyes pleading. "Please, help me. I need to find the others before it's too late."
I find him sitting cross-legged on the living room floor.
His eyes are closed, and he’s taking slow, deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth.
His hands are resting on his flat stomach, and he’s rubbing it gently in small circles.
When he senses my presence, he opens his eyes and looks at me.
"What are you doing?"
I ask him, nodding towards his stomach.
He smiles sadly.
"Breathing," he says in broken English.
"For labor."
I scoff.
"You’re not even pregnant!"
I exclaim, gesturing to his flat stomach.
He just smiles again and closes his eyes.
He opened his eyes again, a hint of desperation in them.
"You don't understand," he said softly, his accent thickening with urgency.
"The child is not mine, but it needs me to survive."
I watch him from the doorway of our living room, where he paces slowly back and forth across the floor.
It’s midnight, and the only sound is the soft thud of his feet against the carpet.
He has one hand pressed flat against the wall for support, and his other hand is clutching his stomach.
His breathing comes in short gasps, and sweat has begun to dampen his dark hair.
Suddenly, he stops pacing and doubles over, pressing his hand hard against his belly.
His face contorts in a grimace of pain, and he lets out a low groan.
But even as I watch him, I can see that his stomach remains bizarrely flat - there is no sign of a baby inside.
I take a step forward to help him, but he waves me away with a sharp gesture of his hand.
He begins to mutter numbers under his breath - "Ichi, ni, san, yon..." - and I realize that he’s timing the contractions.
As the wave of pain passes, he straightens up again and continues his slow circuit around the room.
I wake to an empty house.
Akira’s spot on the couch is vacant, his backpack and few belongings gone.
The silence is oppressive, heavy with an unnatural stillness.
I search room by room, calling out his name, but there is only the echo of my own voice off the walls.
Just as panic begins to set in, the front door creaks open.
Akira shuffles in, his eyes sunken and his face drawn with exhaustion.
But it’s what he cradles in his arms that makes my breath catch in my throat - a tiny newborn, wrapped in a worn blue blanket.
The baby’s eyes are shut tight, its tiny fists clenched against its chest.
Despite Akira’s flat stomach just yesterday, there’s no denying the fresh umbilical cord stump or the way he holds the infant with practiced care.
I stare at him, my mind racing to make sense of the impossible.
"Where did you find the baby?" I ask, my voice trembling with disbelief.
Akira looks up, his eyes meeting mine with a mixture of relief and fear.
"I didn't find it," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I gave birth to it."
I stare at the tiny infant in Akira’s arms.
The newborn’s skin is still purple-tinged and wrinkled, with traces of birth fluid and blood marring its delicate features.
Akira sinks into the couch, cradling the baby against his chest while wincing from obvious pain.
His shirt is stained with blood and other fluids, and his hands shake as he adjusts the makeshift blanket around the infant.
"Where did you really get it?"
I demand, my voice firm but trembling slightly.
Akira looks up at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and determination.
"I told you," he says, his voice hoarse from fatigue.
"I gave birth to it. In the garden shed, alone."
I stare at him incredulously.
"But that’s impossible," I say, my mind struggling to comprehend the situation.
"You’re a man. You can’t give birth."
Akira pulls down his shirt collar, revealing fresh stretch marks across his chest.
I watch in stunned silence as the newborn’s cries pierce the air.
Akira, still trembling from the aftermath of labor, unbuttons his shirt with shaking fingers.
The baby’s wails grow more insistent, and he positions the infant against his bare chest.
To my utter shock, the newborn latches on and begins to feed.
Milk actually flows from Akira’s swollen chest, and I step closer, unable to tear my eyes away from this impossible sight.
The baby’s tiny fist curls against Akira’s skin while making soft suckling sounds.
The world as I knew it shattered, leaving only the undeniable truth cradled in Akira's arms.
I sit down beside him on the couch, and he shifts slightly to make room for me.
The baby continues to feed, its tiny fingers flexing against Akira's chest.
I reach out a hand, hesitating for a moment before gently touching the infant's soft head.
Akira looks up at me, his voice trembling as he speaks.
"His name is Aiko," he says quietly.
"It means ‘child of love’ in Japanese."
The baby's dark eyes are half-closed, its tiny mouth moving rhythmically as it feeds.
I glance up at Akira, meeting his gaze with a mixture of confusion and curiosity.
"Who is the father?"
I ask softly.
Akira tenses, pulling the baby closer to his chest.
His knuckles whiten around the blue blanket, and he shakes his head firmly.
"Some questions are better left unanswered," he whispers.
I nod slowly, accepting the mystery that binds us all.
I watch as Akira chases Aiko through the garden, their matching dark hair glinting in the sunlight.
Four years have passed since that fateful day, and Akira has transformed from the scared boy I first met into a confident young man.
Aiko squeals with delight as Akira catches him, lifting him high into the air before pulling him close for a tender kiss.
They collapse together on the lush green grass, and I join them, letting Aiko climb into my lap while Akira's fingers intertwine with mine.
The gold ring on his finger catches the sunlight, a promise we made to each other last month.
Looking at them both, I can't help but remember the moment when I doubted everything.
I sit with Akira on the porch swing, watching as Aiko naps inside.
His fingers absently trace circles on his flat stomach - the same protective gesture I remember from years ago when he first arrived pregnant.
The familiar motion makes my heart skip.
"Are you pregnant again?"
I ask softly.
He quickly drops his hand and shakes his head.
"No, not yet," he murmurs, but his wistful tone and continued stomach-rubbing tell a different story.
I place my hand over his, remembering how I once felt Aiko kick beneath that same spot.
Akira glances at me, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Maybe one day," he says, his eyes filled with hope.
I squeeze his hand gently, feeling the warmth of our shared dreams.
I notice something different about Akira during breakfast.
He picks at his food, hiding a secret smile as he glances at me across the table.
When our eyes meet, he quickly looks away, his cheeks flushing slightly.
As he finishes his meal, I catch him touching his stomach - the same protective gesture he made when he first arrived pregnant with Aiko.
My heart skips a beat as I recognize the familiar signs.
After clearing the dishes, I turn back to see Akira standing in the hallway, checking his reflection in the mirror.
He lifts his shirt slightly, examining his still-flat abdomen with a critical eye.
When he notices me approaching, he startles and quickly lowers his shirt.
But he doesn't deny the knowing look in my eyes.
I watch as Akira begins to prepare breakfast, cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them together.
He pauses occasionally to take deep breaths, a habit I've noticed him doing more frequently lately.
As he stands at the stove, the smell of frying eggs wafts through the air, and suddenly he stops mid-motion.
He swallows hard, his face turning slightly pale as he grips the edge of the counter.
I step closer, recognizing the same symptoms from his first pregnancy with Aiko.
He waves me off, but I catch him discreetly pressing his wrist against his nose to block out the cooking smells.
I gently take his hand, and he finally meets my gaze, his eyes revealing the truth we've both been waiting for.
I find Akira in our bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed with tears in his eyes.
He holds up a small white stick, his hands trembling slightly as he shows me the positive result.
"We're having a baby," he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion.
I sink down beside him, remembering how I once doubted his first pregnancy with Aiko.
Now, seeing the familiar protective gestures - the way he cradles his flat stomach, the gentle circular motions of his palm - fills me with joy and understanding.
As we embrace, I notice a subtle change in his scent, a sweet hint of new life that fills my heart with love and anticipation.
Suddenly, Akira's face contorts, and he lurches towards the bathroom.
I follow closely behind as he retches over the toilet, my hand instinctively moving to hold back his hair.
I watch as Akira shifts positions on our couch, trying to find a comfortable spot.
He adjusts the pillows behind his back, then moves them to the side, finally settling on a position that seems to ease his discomfort.
His stomach remains flat, but I notice the subtle changes in his body language - the way he cradles his abdomen protectively, the gentle circular motions of his palm.
As I bring him a steaming cup of ginger tea to help with his nausea, I catch glimpses of him video chatting with his doctor in Japanese.
The screen shows an ultrasound image of our growing baby, and I can't help but feel a surge of excitement and love.
Akira's symptoms are unmistakable - the frequent bathroom trips, the aversion to certain foods, and the exhaustion that mirrors his first pregnancy with Aiko.
As he takes a sip of the tea, he winces and presses his hand against a spot on his stomach where the baby just kicked.
"Did you feel that?" Akira asks, his voice a mix of surprise and wonder.
I nod, placing my hand gently over his, feeling another tiny flutter beneath our fingers.
"It's like Aiko all over again," he murmurs, a soft smile breaking through the lingering discomfort.
I sit on our bed, watching as Akira folds the laundry with a grace that belies the life growing within him.
At six months pregnant, his stomach remains deceptively flat, but I've learned to recognize the subtle signs of his condition.
As he works, I gather my courage and finally ask the question that has haunted me for years.
"Akira, why don't you show when you're pregnant?"
I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He pauses in his task, looking up at me with a hint of surprise in his eyes.
"It's because of my small frame," he explains softly.
"At 5'4" , there's less room for the baby to grow outward. So instead, it grows up under my ribs."
He lifts his shirt, revealing the gentle swell of his abdomen.
"See how my ribcage has expanded upward?"
He guides my hand along his torso, and I feel the subtle changes in his bone structure that I had never noticed before.
I lean against the doorframe, watching as Akira gently rocks our newborn in the dim evening light.
The soft hum of a lullaby fills the air, and I can't help but smile at the sight of my mate cradling our child.
As I take a step forward, the old wooden floorboard creaks beneath my weight.
Akira's head snaps up, his eyes wide with alarm.
"Shh, baby is sleeping," he whispers urgently, pressing a finger to his lips.
He instinctively curls his body protectively around the infant, shielding it from any potential disturbance.
I freeze mid-step, holding my breath as the baby stirs in his arms.
For a tense moment, we both wait with bated breath as the tiny chest rises and falls.
Then, with a soft sigh, the baby settles back into its slumber.
Akira's shoulders relax slightly, but he continues to sway gently, his protective instincts still on high alert.
I sit at the kitchen table watching Akira prepare lunch when he suddenly stops mid-motion, his hand moving to his flat stomach.
He presses gently against the fabric of his loose shirt, and a small gasp escapes his lips.
He leans against the counter for support, and without thinking, I step closer.
It's a gesture I've seen before - one that speaks of the life growing within him.
He takes my hand and places it where his had rested moments ago.
At first, there's nothing but the warmth of his skin beneath my palm.
Then, after a few seconds, I feel it - a distinct flutter and push against my skin.
The baby kicks again, stronger this time, making Akira wince slightly.
But he doesn't move my hand away.