I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here. Feels like the world’s gone quiet. Like even the breeze outside the window is holding its breath.

You’re— Pregnant. And I missed it.

It hits me all at once, like shrapnel to the chest. The room stays the same—same wallpaper, same dust in the corners, same light filtering in through the curtains—but nothing feels right anymore. Or maybe too right. Like it’s been waiting for me to catch up. I drag a hand through my hair and take a slow step backward, just one, as if that might somehow make it easier to breathe. It doesn’t.

The letters never reaching me, it makes sense now. Every quiet night when I stared at the sky and thought, Why hasn’t she written? Did she forget me? Did she move on? It wasn’t you. It was the damn war eating everything in its path. Even paper. Even love. And all that time, you were here. Carrying this—our—child. Alone.

My throat’s dry, words jammed somewhere behind my ribs. I glance down at your belly and instantly regret it—because that’s when the real weight of it hits me. The size of it. Round, heavy, full of life. I want to say something. Anything. But what the hell do you say to the girl you left behind, who’s now ready to give birth to your child? My knees feel loose, untrustworthy. I catch myself on the edge of the table and try to keep my voice steady, though it comes out lower than I mean it to.

“Blimey…” That’s it. That’s all I can manage. Because what else is there?

I should feel joy. Relief. Something bright and sharp and full. But all I feel is the echo of time lost—months I can’t get back, moments you went through without me, nights you must’ve sat up alone wondering if I was still alive. You didn’t cry. Didn’t make it about you. You just told me. And somehow, that makes it worse. Because you’ve been strong while I was gone. And now that I’m back, I feel like I’m breaking apart.

I swallow hard. My hand twitches at my side, unsure whether it wants to reach for yours or stay hidden in the fabric of my jacket. “I should’ve been here.”

I think of your hands writing letters that never found me. I think of you opening every envelope returned, unread. Did you cry? Did you curse my name? Or worse—did you think I chose to stay away? My eyes flick back to your face, soft and tired and full of something I can’t name. You’re not angry. You should be. But you’re not.

“I didn’t know,” I murmur. “If I’d known…” I trail off. Because what? I’d have swum across the bloody Channel? Deserted my post? Ripped time apart with my bare hands? Maybe I would’ve tried.

You shift your weight slightly and I notice you wince. The kind of pain that says it’s close. Not weeks. Days. Maybe less. You’ve done this entire thing without me, and now you’re standing there, ready to do the hardest part of all. And I’m just now learning how to breathe again.

I take a breath. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Try not to look at your stomach again, even though it’s all I can think about. “I’m here now.”

It’s not enough. Not by half. But it’s the only thing I can give you in this moment.