She stepped out slowly—cheeks flushed, skin sallow beneath the unforgiving lights. She crossed to the sink without looking up at me and gripped the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright. But in the reflection of the mirror, I could see that her eyes were glassy…like she’d been crying.
“Too many margaritas last night,” she said quietly.
And that’s when it hit me. My mind flashed back to last night, when everyone in attendance had a drink in their hand—except Blair, who'd held onto the same bottle of water all night long.
In that moment she didn’t have to tell me she was pregnant. I knew. Maybe it was the fear in her eyes, or the soft way she cradled her stomach. Not in a way that said she was sick, but in a way that was almost… protective.
Then suddenly I was back there again—alone in my apartment with the electricity shut off, rocking a newborn I couldn’t keep.
“How far along are you?” I asked, forcing myself to stay where I was, even though every instinct in me wanted to cross the room and pull her into my arms.
At first, she didn’t answer. Her back stiffened, and she took a deep breath—but then her shoulders sagged, like whatever she’d been holding together finally slipped through her fingers.
“Six weeks,” she said quietly, but the words were nearly swallowed by the sound of running water.
My stomach twisted, and I gripped the wall behind me in an attempt to steady myself. “Does anyone else know?”
She shook her head. “No. No one other than the father. Who wants nothing to do with it, by the way.”
Something sharp lodged in my chest. I dropped my gaze to the tile, giving myself a moment before I spoke again—willing myself not to say the wrong thing.
“I know how heavy this feels,” I said quietly. “Carrying something like this on your own. Waking up every day and wondering which way is up when everything suddenly feels… impossible.”
Her hands stilled at the sink.
Slowly, she lifted her eyes toward my reflection—guarded, uncertain, confused, like she wasn’t sure what I was talking about.
“I’ve been where you are,” I spoke again. “I know what it’s like.”
She only stared at me, then reached for the soap and began to lather her hands, her movements careful—like she was buying herself time before she finally turned to face me. “You have kids?” she asked quietly.
I drew in a slow breath. Held it. Then let it go.
“Not anymore.”
A pause settled between us—thick, fragile.
“I gave him up for adoption. When he was four weeks old.”
The confession slipped out before I could stop it. I didn’t know why I’d said it—only that I couldn’t stand the idea of her standing here alone with something this big. Because once, not so long ago, I’d been exactly where she was. Terrified. Isolated. Wishing for someone to lean on.
And for once, telling the truth felt easier than hiding behind a story.
But the air changed the second the words left my mouth.
Blair’s shoulders tensed, she turned toward the sink again and rinsed the soap from her hands, as though trying to rinse away the conversation. I could almostseeher retreat—fold into herself, the same way one did when vulnerability wrapped its claws around your neck.
“I’m not saying that’s what you should do,” I added quickly, before she could read too much into my words. “I just… know what it’s like to feel alone. To wake up every day without a map and pretend you’re not terrified.”
The words caught in my throat. I hadn’t meant for my voice to crack—but it did. And that seemed to be what finally reached her.
Blair glanced up at me, really looking this time, like she’d just realized I wasn’t hovering out of obligation. Her eyes misted as she grabbed a towel from the basket, dried her hands, and folded it with careful precision before tossing it into the hamper by the door—stalling, maybe, the same way I once had.
“Was it hard for you?” she asked when she turned back around to face me. “Letting him go, I mean?”
For a second, the bathroom disappeared.
I was standing in a windowless office that smelled like burnt coffee and printer ink. My name was typed neatly at the topof a stack of papers I could barely bring myself to touch. My hand had shaken so badly, the pen left a crooked line where my signature was supposed to be. I remembered thinking if I just waited—if I stalled long enough—someone would stop me. Tell me I didn’t have to do it. Tell me I was allowed to change my mind.
