Now it’s quiet inside me. A deep, echoing quiet, like I got hollowed out and the universe forgot to fill me back in.
I ignore the holonet. Haven’t touched a stream in weeks. Not even a bootleg gossip reel. My inbox is a graveyard of unopened messages. Fans, contracts, family—my mother, mostly, with her clipped little calls and increasingly desperate voicemails.
“Isolde, you have obligations.”
“You can’t just disappear—this isn’t professional.”
“People are worried.”
I don’t answer. Because if I do, I’ll have to lie. And I’ve spent enough of my life doing that on camera.
So I ghost them all.
The sky is easier than people anyway.
I start noticingit about five days before it happens.
It’s nothing major at first. Just a haze in my head. A tiredness that clings to my skin like humidity, even though the suite keeps everything at a regulated twenty-two degrees.
Then the headaches come. Dull pulses behind my eyes, like someone’s knocking on the inside of my skull trying to get out. I chalk it up to dehydration. Grief. Too much time spent watching the static waterfall loop in my window like it’s a prophecy.
Then one morning, I get out of bed and my knees just?—
Give.
The fall is slow, almost dreamlike. My hip hits the floor. My shoulder catches the edge of the dresser. Pain blooms dull and immediate.
And then, black.
I wakeup to soft beeping and the antiseptic tang of medgel.
My vision’s fuzzy. My lips taste like metal. I blink, and the ceiling’s wrong—brighter than usual, too sterile.
Medbay.
Not the one on Novaria’s main level. This one’s private. Emergency.
I groan. My throat’s dry.
“Hey,” I rasp.
Reflector floats into view. His lens is patched, one side flickering, but his voice is clear.
“You are awake. That is good.”
“Did I...?”
“You fainted,” he replies. “Unusual hormone levels were detected during post-collapse analysis. The medical AI initiated further testing.”
I blink. Sit up. “So I have the flu or something?”
He tilts slightly. “No.”
Pause.
Then—
“You are pregnant.”
