The walls. The floor. The world.
He’s gone. But the silence is worse.
His words didn’t leave with him. Every single one remains, a shard of glass lodged under my skin. And every breath I take just drives them deeper.
“You couldn’t be a better version of Cecily if you were born again.”
The sentence repeats like a curse.
Born again. As if even a new life wouldn’t be enough to make me worthy.
My chest tightens until I can’t breathe. I press a hand against it, but it doesn’t help. The ache keeps spreading.
“You don’t even deserve to stand in the same room as her.”
I hear his voice again… the disgust in it, the certainty.
I reach for one of the pillows, clutching it like it could hold me together, but the tears come harder.
Ugly, shaking sobs that make my whole body hurt. My throat burns with the memory of his laughter.
“No. You’re not a whore… Whores are smarter. They get paid.”
I want to scream. To throw something. To tear this place apart the way he tore me.
But instead, I sink deeper into the couch, breath hitching, the sound of my crying breaking in uneven gasps.
I gave him everything.
Every part of me. Body, heart... I’m carrying his child.
And he humiliated me. Crushed me beneath his heel.
Turned his back on me like I was nothing.
I press my face into the pillow and let it swallow my tears. And the pain.
Content Notice
In the following section, there are references to blood loss, miscarriage, medical procedures, and the emotional and psychological aftermath of pregnancy loss, including intrusive or erratic thoughts.
These topics are handled with care, but they may be distressing for some readers. Please consider pausing or stepping away if needed, and always prioritize your emotional well-being.
A sharp stab of pain in my lower belly rips me from sleep.
First, a dull, twisting ache deep under my skin. Then it sharpens. A pressure so intense I can’t draw a breath.
I fling my hand toward the lamp on the nightstand, flick the switch with trembling fingers, and the soft yellow glow floods the room.
I reach for my stomach on instinct, but the sheets are wet, warm, and when I pull my hand back, it’s red.
For a moment, I just stare at it.
At the color. At what it means.
Then panic hits.
“Colin,” I whisper, before I even realize I’m saying his name. My voice cracks like it’s not mine anymore.
