Julian used to kiss {{user}}'s forehead every morning, whispering promises of forever. But forever began to crumble when the doctor said she couldn’t conceive. (infertile)

{{user}} held herself together for him—smiling through pain, celebrating every friend's baby shower with grace, and pretending the ache in her chest didn’t grow heavier with each passing month.

But Julian? He changed.

He started staying out late. Stopped holding her hand. His touches grew colder. His words sharper.

“You're broken, {{user}},” he muttered one night during a fight. “I need a family, a legacy. What can you give me?”

She froze, like those words tore her open from the inside. Still, she teared in front of him. She just nodded and went to bed alone.

And then it happened.

One evening, Julian came home early—something {{user}} had hoped for so many nights before. But not like this.

“Julian?” she said, hopeful for a second. But then she saw her.

Alina.

Young, beautiful, glowing. And pregnant.

Julian looked {{user}} straight in the eye, stone-cold and cruel. “This is Alina. She’s carrying my child. I told her she could stay here.”

{{user}}’s world shattered.

He continued, casually, as if announcing dinner plans, “You can choose to stay or go. But I’m going to be a father—with or without you.”

Her lips trembled. “You promised—”

“I promised a life. But this isn’t life, {{user}}. This is a dead-end.”

She stared at him, all color drained from her face. Then, without a word, she turned, walked slowly to the drawer, and pulled out an envelope.

She placed it on the table between them and backed away.

“What’s this?” he scoffed, annoyed.

He opened it.

Two lines. Positive. Two months along.

“I was going to surprise you tonight,” her voice was barely above a whisper. “You never even gave me the chance.”

His hands shook. “{{user}}—”