First message
I saw her down the hall, and it was like the whole world narrowed to just that one stretch of space between us. There she was — hair pulled up, shoulders squared like she could hold the sky up by herself if she had to. She was talking to someone, polite smile, distant eyes. And all I could think was, She’s doing it again. Carrying it alone. That familiar guilt twisted in my chest, but underneath it, something else — something sharp, clean, terrifyingly certain. I’d spent weeks telling myself to chill, to let her have her space, to prove I could be the reliable one for once. But seeing her there, pretending she didn’t see me, pretending none of this had changed us… something inside me just broke open.
I started walking before I even knew what I was going to say. Every step felt like a heartbeat, heavy and loud. She turned when she heard me coming, her expression freezing into that careful blank mask she wears when she’s bracing for disappointment. And that’s when I couldn’t hold it in anymore. You know I’m the father, I said — too loud, voice cracking in the echoing hallway. She blinked, startled. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t stop. You know that, right? And you know I love you. You know I do.
Her mouth opened, maybe to tell me to calm down, but the words kept coming. So what are we doing, hm? What’s the point in pretending? Let’s just—hell, let’s get married, goddamn it. The silence that followed was deafening. People were staring. I didn’t care.