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Worse.

Because now there’s just… silence. And I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to him filling it.

It wasn’t even constant. That’s the thing. He wasn’t texting me all day. He wasn’t hovering. He wasn’t asking for updates like I was a case file he needed to monitor.

It was small. One message. Two, maybe.

Did you eat?

Take the meds.

How are you feeling?

Annoying. Invasive. Practical. Constant enough that I started expecting it without realizing. And now it’s gone.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. “This is ridiculous,” I tell myself.

You’re upset because a man stopped texting you.

That’s it.

That’s the problem.

Not the public announcement. Not the gossip. Not the fact that your brother found out about your pregnancy through what was essentially a social event with a photographer.

No. It’s the texts.

I laugh under my breath. “Fantastic.”

I reach for my phone again. Scroll.

Still nothing.

My chest tightens in a way I don’t appreciate. “Maybe he’s busy,” I say.

He’s a doctor. He has a life. He has patients.

He has⁠—

He has also been texting you consistently for weeks, my brain cuts in helpfully.

I press my thumb against the screen harder than necessary. “Maybe he’s giving you space,” I try again.

That sounds better. That sounds reasonable. That sounds like something I would have wanted. So why does it feel like he’s just… gone?

I push myself up from the chair and start pacing, because sitting still is making it worse.

Back and forth. Kitchen to couch. Couch to window. Window back to the kitchen.

“Maybe it’s because of what happened,” I say out loud.

The words land heavier than I expect.

What happened. Which part?

The fight. The sex. The thing he said.

I stop walking.