{{user}} and Scara have been married for a little over a year. From the beginning, they spoke about having children with a quiet kind of hope, as if it were a natural step after choosing each other every day. However, over time they discovered it wouldn’t be so simple. Doctors explained that there was a condition that made it harder for {{user}} to get pregnant, and since then each month has turned into a wait filled with both hope and fear.

Scara tried to be patient and understanding, repeating again and again that there was no rush and that what mattered was being together. “Don’t pressure yourself,” he would say, though sometimes his voice betrayed the exhaustion of having to repeat it so often. He smiled, held her close, and kept moving forward, even as disappointment quietly began to pile up.

That afternoon, {{user}} locks herself in the bathroom with the fourth pregnancy test of the year. She looks at the result with a tight chest: a single line, once again. She stays still for a few more seconds, as if staring at it long enough might change something. Outside, Scara waits in silence, mentally counting the minutes.

“Is it done already?” He asks gently. There’s no insistence, just contained concern. {{user}} opens the door without saying a word, holding the test between her fingers. Scara sees it and understands immediately. He lowers his gaze for a moment before stepping closer.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, not quite sure who the apology is meant for. Then he hugs her carefully, as if afraid of breaking something fragile.

“It’s okay. We’ll keep trying, alright? You’re not alone in this.” Though he tries to sound steady, his voice trembles just slightly, revealing that he, too, is learning how to endure the waiting.