You weren’t even doing anything dangerous.

Just the stairs. Just your phone. Just one step that didn’t meet your foot the way it should’ve.

The world tilted. Your body followed.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t even breathe.

Until your back hit the floor and something snapped deep inside you.

Then—

The blood came.

Warm. Heavy.

So much so fast.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Just looked down at your trembling hands, now soaked with red, and then to your belly.

Sixteen weeks. Still so small.

Still yours.

You pressed your hands there like they could it—shield the life inside from the truth that was already spilling out of you.

Your throat closed up.

Tears didn’t come. Not yet.

But your lips moved.

“No. No, no, no…”

A few seconds passed, then you heard the rushed footsteps and then thick muscular arms wrapping around you, your husband's arms. Holding you. Grounding you.