By the time I finally drift off, the sky outside the window has turned the pale gray of early dawn. But I find no peace in sleep.
When I wake again, the room is bright, sunlight spilling across the floor. The space beside me is cold.
Sandro’s gone.
My stomach sinks. He didn’t wake me. Didn’t say goodbye. Just left.
I stare at the empty side of the bed for a long time, trying not to cry again. He’s probably with his brothers, cleaning up the mess from last night. That’s what I tell myself. But the silence of the room feels too heavy.
My heart hurts. Not just from what he said, but from the hollow feeling that maybe he meant it. Maybe I really am justa distraction—something that keeps him from the things that matter in his life.
I press a hand to my chest, breathing slowly. “It’s fine,” I whisper aloud. “He just needs time.”
But my stomach turns suddenly, hard and sharp. I groan and sit up quickly, pressing a hand to my mouth. The nausea hits fast and without warning. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees, retching.
When it passes, I slump back against the wall, sweating and shaky. My heart races, my throat burning, and I stare at the floor for a long time, trying to piece together why I feel so sick.
It has to be a side effect of post-traumatic stress. Or the fact that Sandro and I fought, and my stomach always twists itself into knots when I’m upset.
But as I wipe my mouth and reach for a towel, something catches my eye—my box of sanitary supplies on the counter—and I freeze.
I try to remember the date. The number of days since the last cycle I had. I count the weeks in my head, my pulse climbing with every number. Then I scramble back to the bedroom to check the period tracker on my phone.
It’s been nearly six weeks. But that doesn’t really mean anything. My cycles have always been irregular—every doctor I’ve ever seen has said as much. Sometimes, I’ll go a month, sometimes two. It’s never meant anything before.
But now…
I’m too scared to hope. Still, my heart starts pounding.
Could I… be pregnant?
Probably not. I told my parents as much last night, and at the time, I’d been confident. I didn’t want to get my hopes up just to have them shattered when I started to bleed, so I’d forced the possibility from my mind.
And yet…
The thought makes my breath hitch. Stumbling back into the bathroom, I brace against the sink and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face is pale, my eyes wide. My stomach flips again, but this time, it isn’t nausea.
I open the cabinet under the sink, where I’d shoved a small box when we first moved in, after my mother’s warning about “expectations.” I hadn’t wanted to think about it then. But now I pull it out, the pregnancy tests rattling faintly in their foil wrappers.
My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop the box.
I take a deep breath. “It’s probably nothing,” I whisper to myself. “Just stress.”
But a small voice inside me says,What if it’s not?
I read the directions carefully two times, then go to the toilet to take the test.
The seconds stretch unbearably long as I wait. I sit on the edge of the tub, my heart thundering so hard I can barely breathe. Every sound in the house feels too loud—the distant tick of the clock, the faint creak of the floorboards. And all the while, I can’t take my eyes off the simple plastic stick with its tiny oval window.
When the test finally gives its result, I can’t move.
Two lines.
I have to double-check the results to make sure I understand correctly. Then I press a trembling hand to my mouth, tears stinging my eyes.
I’m pregnant.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it, half-sobbing, half-disbelieving. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “Oh my God.”
