“And your last period?”
I pause, trying to think back. When was it? Definitely before the chaos at Vecoli. And the attack weeks ago outside the fertility clinic.
The days have blurred together so much I can barely remember what month it is, let alone track my cycle.
“I... I’m not sure. Maybe six weeks? I haven’t really been paying attention. But I’ve always been irregular, especially during dance season. The stress of performing?—”
“And when did the fatigue start?” he interrupts, making notes on his clipboard. “The body aches?”
“A few weeks ago, I guess. But like I said, we’ve been through a lot. It makes sense that I’d be tired.”
“Indeed.” He sets down his clipboard and excuses himself, saying he’ll be right back.
I sit on the exam table, swinging my legs and trying not to fall asleep sitting up. My body feels like it’s made of lead, every movement requiring more energy than I have to give.
When Tulio returns, his expression has changed. A slow smile spreads across his face as he nudges his glasses up his nose and clutches a sheet of paper.
“What?” I ask, confused. “What’s going on?”
“Fatigue is extremely common for people who have been through what you’ve experienced over the past few months,” he begins, moving to stand in front of me. “The trauma, the stress, the fear—it all takes a toll on the body.”
“Um, right. So that’s what this is?”
“Not exactly,” he says, pausing for a second. “Stress isn’t the primary cause of your exhaustion, Nevaeh.”
I stare at him, still not understanding. “Then what could it possibly be?”
“You’re pregnant. Blood test results confirm as much.”
He hands over the sheet of paper and my eyes widen, a hand flying to my mouth. The words take several more seconds to sink in as they rearrange everything I thought I knew about what’s been happening to my body.
I’m pregnant.
A blood test doesn’t lie. It’s right there in black and white.
“You’re about seven weeks along,” Tulio continues. “Which is why your symptoms are just now becoming more pronounced. The fatigue, the tender breasts, the difficulty eating and keeping things down—it’s all consistent with early pregnancy.”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out. My mind races backward, piecing together the timeline.
My last period was... it was before everything exploded. Caelian and I had been having sex constantly. Nearly everynight, sometimes multiple times in a day. We’d even started seeing that fertility doctor, hopeful but not expecting anything so soon.
Things had still been fragile between us and we were just patching up the rough spots in our relationship.
But it’s happened. It’s actually happened.
I place a hand on my stomach, flat and unchanged, but knowing now that there’s a life growing inside me. A tiny cluster of cells that’s half me and half Caelian.
Our baby that’ll soon be born to the world.
“Oh my god,” I breathe, tears pricking at my eyes. “I’m pregnant. I was pregnant this entire time. Through everything. Am I okay? Is the baby unharmed? I was kidnapped while pregnant. Shot at while pregnant. All those loud gunshots must’ve been bad for?—”
“The first trimester can be turbulent,” Tulio interrupts, his expression becoming more serious. “There’s always a risk of miscarriage, especially given the stress and physical trauma you’ve endured. But as long as we monitor your vitals, get you on prenatal vitamins, and ensure you receive proper care and rest, you should progress toward a healthy pregnancy.”
My worried expression softens into something of a smile, unable to contain the joy bubbling up inside me. “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for us. For Caelian, and now... this.”
I hop off the exam table, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the rush of excitement and disbelief. I need to tell someone. I need to?—
I rush into the hallway and nearly collide with Ms. Poitier, who’s heading toward the laundry room with a basket of linens.
