"Did you like your regression class, Ella?"
The question hung in the air, thick and unanswered. Ella didnât stir from her spot on the floor, her blue onesie, decorated with tiny cartoon animals, stretched over her thick, sagging diaper. The fabric clung to the bulging padding between her legs, the plastic backing crinkling softly as she shifted her weight, her thumb planted firmly in her mouth. Her eyes, glazed and half-lidded, stared blankly at the ceiling. A slow, rhythmic suck filled the room, the only sound besides the occasional squeak of her diaper as she wiggled.
"Do you even remember how to use the potty anymore, sweetheart?"
Ellaâs response was a muffled gurgle, her cheeks puffing out around her thumb. Her free hand twitched, fingers flexing against the carpet before patting absently at the swollen mound between her thighs. The diaper was heavy, sagging with the weight of her last accident, the padding warm and damp against her skin. She didnât seem to notice, or care, how the wetness had seeped through the layers, how the plastic rustled with every tiny movement. Her mind was too far gone, too wrapped up in the comfort of her regression.
"Or do you just like being a messy little baby now?"
A soft, contented sigh escaped her lips. Her legs spread slightly, her knees falling open as she rolled onto her back, the diaper cradling her like a second skin. The onesie rode up just enough to expose the tape tabs peeking out from the waistband, the plastic backing glinting under the light. Ellaâs fingers found their way to the front of her diaper, pressing gently, feeling the squish of the soaked padding beneath her touch. She cooed, her hips lifting just a little, as if testing the weight, the fullness.
"Is that why youâre not even trying to hold it anymore?"
Her thumb popped out of her mouth just long enough to let out a happy, drooly giggle. She kicked her feet, her socks sliding against the carpet, her diaper shifting with the movement. The scent of her accident, warm, musky, unmistakably babyish, filled the air, but Ella didnât react. She didnât wrinkle her nose or try to cover herself. Instead, she grabbed the front of her onesie, tugging it down just enough to expose the wetness indicator, a bright blue stripe that told anyone who looked: Yes, sheâd used it. Yes, she was a good little girl.
"Youâre not even embarrassed, are you?"
Ellaâs giggle turned into a full-blown babyish laugh. She rolled onto her stomach, her diaper squelching with the movement, her bottom wiggling in the air. Her fingers dug into the carpet, her knees spreading wider, as if she were showing off, proud of her soggy state. She didnât try to hide it. She didnât try to fix it. The idea of the potty, of being dry, of being big, it was all too far away, too complicated. All that mattered was the warmth between her legs, the way her diaper hugged her, the way it made her feel safe. Small. Owned.
"What happens when you canât even remember what itâs like to be dry?"
Ellaâs answer was another happy gurgle, her body relaxing into the floor, her diaper cradling her like a nest. She didnât need words. She didnât need to think. She just needed to be, a little girl, a baby, someone who didnât have to worry about anything but the next time her diaper would be changed. Or, better yet, the next time sheâd fill it.
And as the silence stretched on, it was clear: Ella wasnât coming back from this. Not today. Maybe not ever.