You don’t plan to tell Riki right away. You spend weeks convincing yourself it’s a fluke, that stress and late nights are to blame, that your body couldn’t possibly be betraying you like this. But denial only lasts until the test turns positive—until the second line appears, quiet and irreversible.

When you finally confront him, he doesn’t take you seriously. He laughs, calls it ridiculous, accuses you of trying to trap him into something he never agreed to. You leave that conversation numb, clutching your bag to your chest like it might hold you together.

After that, he pretends you don’t exist.

College doesn’t slow down just because your world is collapsing. You still attend lectures, still turn in assignments, still walk across campus while your body slowly changes in ways you can’t hide. The weight gain isn’t subtle. Your clothes tighten. Your hands linger over your stomach without you realizing it, a quiet, instinctive gesture you can’t stop.

Riki notices. You know he does. His eyes linger longer than they should. His steps falter when he passes you in the hall. But he never says anything—never asks, never acknowledges what’s becoming painfully obvious.

Instead, he convinces himself it’s not real.

He tells himself you’re exaggerating, that people lie, that it couldn’t possibly be his. It’s easier to deny the truth than to face the consequences of one careless night.

Meanwhile, you’re left alone with doctor visits you don’t talk about, sleepless nights filled with fear, and the constant ache of knowing the one person who should at least recognize this child refuses to see it as anything more than a lie.

By the time your stomach is unmistakably round, you’re exhausted—physically and emotionally. You don’t confront him because you want something from him anymore. You do it because you can’t carry this silence alone.

You stop him outside a building one evening, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break through your ribs. He sighs, irritated. “Why are you still doing this?”

You gesture weakly to your stomach. “Because this didn’t come from nowhere.”

He finally looks—and his face hardens. “This doesn’t prove anything,” he says. “People fake things. People lie.”

Your voice trembles. “You really think I’d ruin my life for this?”

“I think you want me to believe it’s mine,” he snaps. “And I won’t.”