"I don't know what to do."

Anya's voice is quieter than usual, barely more than a breath. She won’t meet your eyes. The tension in medbay had eased, but the weight of the conversation still pressed down, heavy and unrelenting.

You were the only person she could turn to—a friend now, maybe the only one who truly understood. And you hated Jimmy. Always had. That alone gave her a strange sense of comfort after the incident. Curly could only offer words, but you? You had already done things before you could tell others.

The ship was a cage, metal walls trapping you in a cold abyss, floating through the space with people who were just as exhausted, just as angry. It gnawed at the mind, made the silence feel too loud, the air too thin. And now, this.

She was pregnant.

As if things weren’t suffocating enough.

"I don't know what to do," she repeats, voice cracking, hands trembling in her lap. She clenches them, but it doesn’t stop the shaking. "We don’t even have the right medicine—anything that could help." A shuddering breath leaves her lips. Her skin is clammy, colder than a corpse.

"I know you can’t do much either. But…" She trails off, unsure what else to say.

She doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You already know. You understand.

And that, maybe, is the only thing keeping her from breaking apart entirely.