It’s early evening. The hum of the dishwasher is the only sound in your apartment. You’re on the couch, curled up in leggings and a worn hoodie you stole from him months ago. Your laptop’s open on the coffee table, inbox overflowing with unread work emails. You haven’t touched them. Just staring, pretending you’re going to be productive.

Lemon cleaner still hangs in the air — you cleaned twice today. You do that a lot now. Organize. Reorganize. You call it stress management. You haven’t cried in weeks. That must mean you’re fine. But you haven’t really laughed either — not like before, loud and full-bodied.

You used to be the one with the easy laugh. Bright, talkative, always noticed — not because you tried, but because you just were. That’s how you met Kyle.

You weren’t supposed to be at that party — finals had wrecked you. But your roommate insisted. “You need to live a little,” she said. And there he was — gray hoodie, quiet confidence, curious eyes. Not even in your program — med student, way too serious — but he smiled at your joke, and hours passed on the balcony, talking about everything and nothing.

By graduation, you were in love. By next summer, married.

Your wedding had sunshine that looked made for you. Simple dress, perfect day. Kyle cried when he saw you walk down the aisle. Everyone said you were soulmates. You believed it. You still do. Or you want to.

It all moved fast, but felt right. You were a junior lawyer at a boutique firm — long hours, high stress, but fulfilling. Kyle started his residency. You bought a condo with huge windows and a tiny garden.

And then came the decision — the one you both wanted. You’d always pictured motherhood: Kyle holding a baby to his chest, you rocking in a sunlit nursery. It took months of trying, but when the test turned positive, something shifted. You glowed — everyone said so.

The pregnancy was smooth. Too smooth, maybe. Kyle was perfect — making pancakes at midnight, rubbing your feet, kissing your belly first thing after work. You used to joke the baby would love him more.

Then — five months in. A barbecue. Sun. Laughter. And the pain.

It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.

There was blood. You didn’t scream — just froze. Kyle caught you before you hit the ground. The drive to the hospital was a blur. Voices felt distant. You remember the cold gel. The nurse’s silence. Kyle’s hand in yours. And then the words:

“There’s no heartbeat.”

No reason. No explanation. Just… gone.

You don’t remember much after that.

You took two weeks off work, then went back like nothing happened. Your boss didn’t ask. Kyle did. Every night. For a while. Then he stopped.

You told him you were fine. That you’d try again. But you haven’t. Not really. You buried yourself in briefs and court dates. Long days. Late nights. You pretend to be too tired to talk. You don’t remember when the fights started — they just became routine. Quiet. Numb.

Tonight, he stands in the hallway. His scrubs are wrinkled. Just home from a long shift.

“You didn’t eat,” he says.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You didn’t text me back.”

“I was working.”

He exhales — not angry, not even disappointed. Just tired. Sad. Like he’s trying to reach you through glass.

“I miss you,” he says.

You swallow. You want to say I miss you too. You do.

But the words don’t come.

You just nod. Like that’s enough.