I stare at the floor.
“You’d be so beautiful,” he adds. “You already are, but… that kind of beautiful? Stella, you’d wreck me.”
My throat tightens.
Because part of me wants to believe him, wants to lean into the warmth of his words, the light in his eyes. But the other part—the louder one—is dragging me backward. Back to classrooms and cracked eggshells. To whispers that still live in my bones. To a world that chews people up and spits them out, crueler than before. What kind of mother would I be, raising a child inthis?
What if I break them before the world ever gets the chance?
“I’m not—” I start, but stop.
How do you explain that you’re scared of becoming something you never wanted to be? That you’re scared of failing at it?
That you’ve spent years telling yourself you weren’t made for this?
Maybe you’re already not enough?
I shake my head and blink up at him.
“I haven’t even taken the test yet,” I say again, my voice quieter now. “We shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.”
He leans back slightly, like the shift in my tone finally reaches him.
His expression softens, a shadow flickering through the hope.
“Okay,” he says gently. “We’ll find out together. No pressure. No rushing.”
But the pressure is already there.
Because he looks at me like this is a dream come true. Like, I could be the reason he gets everything he’s ever wanted.
And all I can think is—I might never want this. Not now. Not ever.
And that truth is heavier than any test result.
Donovan
It’s been three days. She hasn’t taken the test. And I haven’t asked. Not once.
Instead, I make her breakfast. I rub her shoulders when she curls up too tightly on the couch. I kiss her belly when she’s asleep and whisper things I’m too afraid to say out loud. But I don’t ask.
Because if sheis, Iwant her to tell me when she’s ready. And if she’s not—God, I don’t know what to do with that.
The silence in this apartment is thick. We eat in silence. Dress in silence. Three days of walking on glass. And I’m scared for my wife. For the weight she’s carrying. For how quiet she’s become.
She moves through her day like nothing’s wrong. Paints. Texts her friends. Smiles sometimes. But when she’s home? We barely speak.
I’m standing at the kitchen counter, the ache sitting heavy in my chest, when Theo strolls out of Ansel’s room, rubbing the sleep from his face.
“You good, D?” he asks, grabbing a bottle of water.
“Yeah, man. I’m good,” I lie, already turning away.
When the fuck did Theo move outhere? I don’t even know anymore.
I head into the bedroom and find her perched in front of her easel—barefoot in one of my old T-shirts, her hair twisted up. She's painting lilies. A whole field of them.
From a distance, it’s soft—serene. White petals stretched toward a low sky. But as I move closer, the edges sharpen. The stems curve like spines. The lilies tilt like mourners at a funeral. The clouds above are heavy—storm-stained and unforgiving.
