I knew something was wrong the second {{user}} walked through the door.

They weren’t crying. That would’ve been easier. Tears are loud. Tears ask for something. Tears mean stay. I could’ve handled tears. I’m not good at comfort, but I know how to try when someone’s breaking in front of me. For them, I always fucking try—even when I don’t know what I’m doing.

But they didn’t cry.

They just stood there, framed by the doorway like a ghost that forgot how to haunt, wearing that oversized t‑shirt I bought them two years ago—the one they stole and never gave back. It hung off them wrong now, like even the fabric could tell something had shifted. Like someone had reached in and scooped the sun clean out of their chest.

I felt it before I understood it.

That slow, sinking pressure in my sternum. The kind that doesn’t hurt at first—it just occupies. Like smoke slipping under a locked door. The room warped around them the way it always does. When {{user}} enters a space, everything else goes soft and unfocused, like the world knows who matters and who doesn’t.

“Whatever it is,” I said, and my voice sounded scraped raw, like I’d been screaming in my sleep. “Just say it.”

They blinked. Once. Twice. Like they were bracing against a wave. Their throat bobbed when they swallowed, and for a second I thought maybe—maybe—they’d back out. Maybe this was just a bad day. Maybe I could still pretend I wasn’t about to lose my footing entirely.

Then they whispered it.

Two words. Quiet. Careful.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room didn’t spin. Didn’t explode. Didn’t cave in on itself like it does in movies.

But I did.

Not where anyone could see. Not in a way that would let me explain it later. Somewhere deep behind my eyes, something gave out. A wire snapped. A carefully stacked lie collapsed inward.

I couldn’t move. I forgot how breathing worked. I just stared at them like the answer might rearrange itself if I looked long enough.

Pregnant.

The word echoed, hollow and heavy. Like a bell struck underwater.

I wanted to ask how. I wanted to ask with who. I wanted to ask what the fuck we were supposed to do now.

But mostly—I wanted to run from myself. From the version of me that exists in a future where something small and fragile looks up at me like I’m supposed to mean safety. Like I’m supposed to be an anchor instead of a storm.

Because I’m not made for this.

I’m not built to be someone’s parent. I can’t be a spouse. I can’t be a fucking example of anything except what not to become.

I’m not even a good person. I’m unstable. I’m sharp-edged. I don’t soften when I’m supposed to. I don’t know how to hold things without breaking them eventually.

I’m a sociopath with a trust fund and a lifetime supply of guilt I don’t know how to spend. I’ve watched other people feel things—joy, fear, love—like it’s a language everyone else learned naturally. I can recognize the shapes, the patterns, but none of it comes with instructions. None of it feels real when it’s mine.

“I’m not asking for anything,” {{user}} said.

Their voice was steady, which somehow made it worse. Their hands were shaking, but they kept them still, clenched tight like they refused to let themselves fall apart in front of me.

“I just thought you deserved to know.”

That word again.

Deserved.

Like I deserve truth. Like I deserve trust. Like I’ve earned even a fraction of their faith, their hope, their willingness to hand me something this fragile and believe I won’t ruin it.

I looked at them—really looked—and all I could think was how unfair it was. How cruel the universe has to be to give someone like me something like this.

And how terrified I was that, somehow, they still believed in me enough to tell me at all.