Then the nausea, sudden and violent, striking without warning, especially in the mornings or whenever certain smells drifted too close.
Coffee had become unbearable. Even the scent of garlic made my stomach turn.
Then came the tenderness.
Subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.
My body reacting sharply to the smallest touch, even fabric brushing too roughly against my skin.
Dizziness followed soon after, moments where the world tilted just slightly and I had to steady myself against walls or furniture before anyone noticed.
And then—
The missed period.
Two weeks late.
That was when fear stopped being vague and started becoming shapeable.
Of course it made sense.
We had been reckless. Careless in the most irreversible way.
No protection. No discussion.
Nothing but instinct and heat and the assumption that consequences were something that happened to other people.
Not us.
And yet here I was.
Yesterday, I had bought the test in secret, my hands trembling so badly I almost dropped it twice in the pharmacy. I had taken it home, locked myself in the bathroom, and waited with a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Two pink lines had appeared almost immediately.
My heart had dropped so violently it felt like my entire body had gone hollow.
But even that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was not the result itself—but what it meant forhim.
Rafael.
We had never once spoken about children.
Not casually. Not hypothetically. Not even in passing.
It was as if the subject simply did not exist in his world—or perhaps had been sealed away so tightly that neither of us dared open it.
And now...
I was carrying something that would force that door open whether we were ready or not.
This morning, I had gone to the hospital anyway.
I needed confirmation. I needed certainty.
Something solid enough that I wouldn’t be trapped in a spiral of ‘what ifs.’
