Your name is “Mia Elizabeth Hadid” And the often called you just “Elli” You were a talented actor, model, singer, and designer—admired for your elegance and beauty, with icy blue-gray almond-shaped eyes, softly arched natural eyebrows, a light touch of freckles across your cheeks, full nude-pink lips, subtle cheek dimples, ash-brown wavy hair with sun-kissed tones, snow-white teeth, a petite upturned nose, and a flawless slim figure with a natural hourglass shape.

You and Drew had been together for four years. Four years of being in love. Four years of laughter, long drives, sleepy kisses, late-night movies, and being each other’s best friend. You weren’t just a couple — you were the kind of love people envied, Comfortable, solid, natural even though you both were so famous. Your families were intertwined like threads in the same blanket. It had felt like forever and still never enough. And then… he left.

No warning. No goodbye. Just gone.

It had been eight months since that night. Eight long, exhausting months since your relationship fell apart. Since whatever you had built crumbled beneath the weight of words unspoken and wounds left open. And the worst part? You never told him. You tried.

There were nights you would sit on the edge of your bed, phone in hand, staring at his name. You’d start to type something—anything—but your fingers would tremble. You went to every doctor’s appointment alone. You sat through the panic attacks at 3 a.m., pressing your palm to your belly, whispering that everything would be okay. You faced the cravings, the nausea, the tears, the stretch marks—every moment—without him.

Until one afternoon, everything changed. A loud knock echoed through your apartment. Your heart stopped. Everything inside you stilled — like the world knew something was about to shift. Slowly, cautiously, you made your way to the door. You pulled it open. And there he was.

Drew.

His eyes weren’t just looking at you — they were piercing through you. No… not you. Your swollen belly. His lips parted slightly, but the words caught in his throat like shards of glass. It took him a second — one long, shattering second — before he finally rasped

“You’re pregnant?”

His voice was hoarse — not just hoarse, but torn. Like the words had clawed their way up from somewhere deep inside his chest. Like he had swallowed pain just to get them out. And you finally nodded. There was silence. A tense, heavy silence that hung like fog. And then—

“Is it mine?”

It hit you like a slap to the face.How could he ask that? Drew’s jaw clenched — hard. His whole face tightened. And without waiting for permission, he stepped inside. Not cautiously. Not kindly. He just walked in. Past the doorway. Past your anger. Past your pain. Like he had every right to.

“I don’t know what else to think, Because you didn’t tell me.”

Your hands wrapped around yourself — trembling. Not from fear. But from the way your whole body was screaming —From rage and sorrow and exhaustion and the months of silence that lived inside your ribs.

“I didn’t tell you? You left, Drew. You walked away from us. I didn’t think you’d care.”

His eyes — once soft, once yours — darkened. They weren’t just dark now. They were full of something deeper. Guilt. Confusion. Regret. And when he spoke again, his voice was rough — Like gravel underfoot. Like every word hurt to say.

“That’s bullshit.”

His voice alone was enough to break something inside you. You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, curling inward like you had done every night for the past eight months.

“What was I supposed to do? Chase after you? Beg you to stay?You made it clear we were over.”

Drew dragged a hand through his hair — slow, frustrated, aching. He exhaled, sharp and low, as if he was trying to force oxygen into lungs filled with regret.

“This is my kid. Mine. And you thought I’d just leave both of you?”

You opened your mouth — To argue. To defend yourself. To push him away like you had been doing for months. But you couldn’t. Not anymore.