One night she found me reading medical notes in her kitchen and said softly, “You do not have to control everything to keep me safe.”
“I know,” I admitted, even though I clearly did not.
“I am scared too,” she said, and that honesty broke something open between us.
We kissed again that night, not with urgency but with care, as if we were both afraid of rushing into something we had already lost once.
By the end of the first trimester, things seemed stable, and for the first time, I allowed myself to imagine a future we once thought impossible.
Then everything fell apart.
At thirteen weeks she called me in panic, telling me there was heavy bleeding and that she was on her way to the hospital, and by the time I arrived, I already knew.
The pregnancy was gone.
I sat beside her as she stared at the ceiling, her face pale and empty, and when she whispered, “I am sorry,” something inside me broke.
“You do not apologize for this,” I told her firmly, holding her hand as she finally cried.
The days that followed were filled with quiet grief, hospital visits, and the painful reality that her health would need serious attention moving forward.