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Just like him.

The air turns colder without her warmth, the emptiness louder in her absence.

I walk toward the little cottage I call home. My dress clings to my legs, satin soaked by grass and regret. The doorknob bites into my palm when I twist it, and the second I step inside, I’m swallowed whole by silence.

No laughter. No lights left on. No Reese pretending to be asleep on the couch with her laptop still playing a rerun of Friends.

Just… nothing.

I toe off my heels, wincing at the ache in my arches. My feet are red and swollen, like they’re mourning too.

The silence presses in around me, thick as honey, slow as sorrow. I press a palm to my stomach.

Still too early to feel anything. Still too abstract to accept it’s real. And yet the weight of it is heavier than anything I’ve ever carried.

But I won’t cry.

I already did that. Cried until my makeup was a melted mess and my dignity washed down the drain with it.

Tonight? I’m done crying. Done hoping. Done waiting.

I flick on the lights, the brightness too sharp, like the world’s mocking me for thinking it would pause just because my life did. My dress puddles on the floor, a champagne-colored ghost of the girl who walked into tonight thinking she might come out whole.

I tug on an old sweatshirt—his, because I’m a masochist apparently—and pour myself a glass of water I don’t really want. My reflection catches in the microwave door, pale and tired and hollow-eyed, like a heroine from a heartbreak anthem.

Congratulations, Mya. You’ve officially become a tragic cliché.

I flop onto the couch, the springs creaking beneath me like they’re sighing too.

I miss Reese.

I miss him.

But mostly, I miss the version of me who believed everything would be okay.

And even though the ache settles in my chest like a second heartbeat, I straighten my spine.

No more moping. No more waiting for apologies that won’t come or comfort that won’t be offered.

Tomorrow, I face the music. Alone. Brave-faced. Bare-souled.

And maybe—just maybe—when the sun comes up, I’ll remember how to breathe again.

Chapter Two

MYA

The cold paper crinkles beneath me like a betrayal, echoing louder than the thunder rumbling outside. My legs dangle from the edge of the exam table, swinging slightly like a kid waiting for a lollipop. Except there are no lollipops here. Just fluorescent lights too bright for comfort and a knot in my stomach that feels like it might unspool everything I’ve tried so hard to keep wrapped up.

Dr. Sanders clicks something on her tablet, her brows inching together as she squints at the monitor. Her lips move, but the sound doesn’t reach me at first. The blood whooshing in my ears drowns it all out. Or maybe it’s my heartbeat. Or maybe it’s the sound of every version of my future collapsing like dominoes into one inevitable, irreversible truth.

“You’re about eight weeks along,” she says again, gentle but clinical, as if repeating it softer might dull the blade. Then her lips press together, a small twitch of her cheek betraying a flicker of hesitation. “And… it looks like there are two gestational sacs.”

I blink.

“Two?” My voice squeaks out, thin and foreign in my throat.

Dr. Sanders nods, turning the monitor slightly so I can see the screen. “Twins.”