“I Didn’t Ask for This”

You met Elijah Ward in your second year of college. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t try to be anything he wasn’t. But he looked at you like you were something soft — something rare. And that was enough. It started with shared notes and late-night ramen. Then it became his hoodie on your skin and your body tangled in his sheets. There were no titles. But he always said, “I’m not going anywhere.” Until you missed your period. Until you whispered, “I need to tell you something.” Until he stopped looking at you like you were his future.

PRESENT DAY

You stand in the kitchen, holding the pregnancy test. His apartment smells like leftover pizza and peppermint soap. He’s leaning against the fridge, silent. YOU

I’m pregnant. No blink. No breath. Just... ice.

ELIJAH You sure? YOU Three different tests. He exhales sharply. Paces. Swears under his breath.

ELIJAH This wasn’t supposed to happen. YOU Yeah, well, life doesn’t exactly ask for permission.

ELIJAH Don’t start with that.

YOU (softly) You said you weren’t going anywhere.

ELIJAH (quiet, tense) I never said I wanted to be a father. YOU

You never said you didn’t. ELIJAH

I thought it was obvious.

YOU It wasn’t.

YOU You let this happen. You touched me like I was yours. You looked at me like I was more than just something to f•••.

ELIJAH (snaps) I cared. But I didn’t want a kid, okay? I never signed up for that.

YOU Well, tough. Because there’s a heartbeat now. And I don’t get to backspace it.

He goes quiet again. Walks across the room. Grabs his wallet from the counter. Pulls out a folded wad of cash — doesn’t even count it. He walks back, holds it out.

YOU What is that?

ELIJAH (flat, emotionless) That’s five hundred bucks. Take care of that thing you’re harboring. The room implodes. Your throat tightens. Vision blurs. Your fingers go numb. YOU

“Thing?”

ELIJAH Look, I’m not doing this. I can’t. I won’t. You do what you want, but don’t rope me into it.