One thousand one hundred and fifty-two times I’ve checked this phone. Yes, I counted. Because what else am I supposed to do at 3 AM when my brain won’t shut off and my stomach is staging a rebellion?
I roll onto his side of the bed. Press my face into his pillow. Inhale.
Cedar. Gunpowder. That expensive cologne he pretends he doesn’t wear but definitely does. And underneath it all—him. Just… him.
My heart hurts.
I curl around the pillow like it’s a living thing. Like if I hold it tight enough, he’ll materialize. Like I can trade my rib cage for his presence.
The tears come then. Hot. Silent. The kind that don’t make you feel better, just emptier.
I hate this.
I hate that I miss him so much my bones ache. I hate that every sound makes me think he’s coming through the door. I hate thatI keep replaying the way he looked at me before he left—jaw tight, eyes dark, like he was memorizing my face in case he never saw it again.
I hate that I know what that look means now.
It meansI might not come back.
It meansthis could be the last time.
It meansI love you, but I’m walking into a fight I might not win.
And I let him go anyway.
Because what was I supposed to do? Chain him to the bed? Beg him to stay while Igor planned whatever revenge fantasy he’s been building for a month?
No.
I let him walk out that door because I love him. Because keeping him here means keeping us in danger. Because sometimes love looks like opening your hand even when every cell in your body is screaming to hold on.
But God, it hurts.
I sit up slowly. The room spins. My stomach lurches.
Here we go again.
I make it to the bathroom just in time. Nothing comes up because there’s nothing left. I’ve been empty since yesterday afternoon. But my body doesn’t care. It heaves anyway, punishing me for daring to exist.
When it finally stops, I slump against the wall. Tile cold against my back. Hair stuck to my face.
This is my life now. Pregnant. Alone. Vomiting nothing into a toilet while the father of my baby is somewhere in Russia, doing God knows what with God knows who trying to kill him.
I rinse my mouth. Brush my teeth. Avoid looking at myself in the mirror because I already know what I’ll see: puffy eyes, pale skin, the kind of exhaustion that lives in your bones.
Back in the bedroom, I stand at the window. Stare at the city waking up below. Cars moving. People walking. The world spinning like nothing’s wrong.
Like my entire universe hasn’t collapsed into a two-week countdown.
My hand moves to my belly. Flat still. Ten weeks. Too early to show. Too early to feel anything.
But it’s there. Growing. Proof that something good came out of all this chaos.
“Your dad’s an idiot,” I whisper to the place where our baby is becoming real. “A brave, loyal, self-sacrificing idiot who thinks he has to fix everything alone.”
A car door slams outside. My heart stops.
I press closer to the window. Scan the street.
