Everything is fine.
Yes. Exactly.
"I'll send your samples for analysis. We'll find the cause of your miscarriage," he says, but I'm not really listening. Let him do whatever he wants. After all, I know I’m the reason.
"Can someone pick you up?" he asks, his gaze fixed on my medical records.
I grunt in agreement as he takes notes. Maxime was supposed to be here by ten o'clock at the latest, or at least I believe he whispered that to me yesterday when we said goodbye.
Maxime.
The man whose baby I killed.
My God, what have I done?
"Alright, then we have everything we need." His cheeks lift. "Take it easy in the coming days. It will take time for your body to recover." He talks to me as if delivering a weather forecast.
Fair and sunny with just a few small clouds. Nothing worth mentioning.
Idiot.
I gaze up at the neon light on the ceiling and nod silently. Equally silent, I accept the folder with self-help groups and addresses of therapists that he hands to me.
"Don't hesitate to seek help," he advises before leaving the treatment room as if trying to escape from me.
I crumple the folder and let the nurse take me back to the room. There, I drag myself into the shower and put on the jogging suit that Maxime brought me yesterday. I tie my hair into a tight bun.
My reflection stares back at me with red-rimmed eyes. Deep shadows accentuate my cheekbones, and my skin is pale like November fog.
Accusingly, I stare back.
I feel no pity. Only contempt. Maxime and I lost our baby. And with our elimination from the tournament, we lost our dream of dancing too.
How could you do that to him, Aurora?
In the distance, a pounding emerges.
You have to make this right.
Suddenly, Maxime's face appears next to mine in the mirror. Quickly, I lower my gaze. How could I look into his eyes after what I've done to him?
"Hey, my love." He sounds too affectionate.
He pulls me into his arms. His warmth leaves me breathless; his love overwhelms me.
"I heard you're allowed to go home," he says, kissing my cheek. "Let's get out of here as soon as possible."
We should. It's time to be myself again. I don't want anyone to pity me, and I don't want to pity myself either. I manage to nod decisively and walk to my bed with lowered lids to pack my few belongings.
One by one, my phone, tissues, and socks find their way into Maxime's backpack. The magazine I didn't touch and the fullwater bottle. Finally, there's only my hairpin left on the bedside table.
It's shaped like a lily and sparkles in various shades of red. One petal is bent.
It shouldn't be a problem to touch it, yet I'm frozen.
Come on, Aurora. Don't be like this. It's just a hairpin.
Just as I think I have enough strength in me to touch that one item that should have gone into our memory box as a reminder of the championships, Maxime steps forward.
