Because what if I didn’t imagine it?
What if, for one second, hedidcare—and still chose to pull away?
That’s the kind of rejection you don’t come back from.
The kind that seeps into your bones and makes you question everything, even the parts that felt real. Especially the parts that felt real.
For chasing softness in a man who warned me, in every way that counts, that he’s carved from something colder.
Stupid for being in this car. In this life.
Andreallystupid for getting pregnant by someone who won’t even look at me now.
I press my knuckles against my lips, as if that’ll keep the nausea down—or the panic. Neither listens.
You’re not telling him.
This isn’t forever. This isn’t a home. It’s a transaction with heated moments and expiration dates. He made that part clear.
I blink fast, but the memory still creeps in.
My mother’s voice, from a thousand years ago, when my biggest problem was nail polish colors and whether my karaoke machine worked. “All babies are gifts, Bella,” she said once, pressing a kiss to my forehead while folding tiny socks into even tinier piles. “Even the ones who show up at the wrong time. Especially those.”
I was 9. I didn’t understand then.
I do now.
God, do I.
I shift, clutching the purse tighter against my stomach. My ribs pull uncomfortably from the motion. My leg protests under the brace. Still swollen. Still bruised. Still his fault.
He didn’t help me into the car.
Didn’t even ask.
Just watched me fumble with the door, struggle with the crutches, wince through the motion like it wasn’t killing me to pretend I could still handle it.
My heart drops again. Lower this time. Maybe it’s finally found the floor.
You’re not his wife, I remind myself.You’re a placeholder in a suit.
A convenient solution with good bone structure and siblings that needed saving. I made a deal. This isn’t love. This isn’t care. This isn’tanything.
So why does it hurt?
Why do I feel nauseous?
I breathe shallowly, slow through the nose, because the rolling sensation in my stomach is starting to get hard to ignore.Oil,I tell myself. Thecarnitaswere greasy. I’m exhausted. My body’s been through hell, and I’m on painkillers. Hormones are wrecked.
Except I know my body.
And this doesn’t feel like tacos.
This feels like…
Oh God.
I glance sideways at him.
