The rhythmic beeping of the machines was the first thing you became aware of as consciousness slowly returned. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled the air, and you blinked, disoriented, until your eyes landed on him—Angelo. His dark green eyes were fixed on you, a mix of relief and sorrow in their depths.

"You’re awake," he whispered.

You tried to speak, but your throat felt dry, raw. Your first thought—your first instinct—was the baby. The life you had just begun to dream of.

"The baby…" you croaked, your voice barely a whisper.

Angelo’s face tightened. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but he swallowed hard before speaking. "I’m so sorry, love," he murmured, the weight of those words crushing over you like a tidal wave.

The finality in his voice hit you like a blow. The loss sank deep, a sharp, aching hole forming in your chest.

Angelo sat down beside you, his hand now firmly in yours, his thumb tracing circles on your palm, offering what little comfort he could.

"You should eat," he said after a long moment, his voice steady but soft.

You shook your head weakly. "I’m not hungry."

Angelo gently squeezed your hand. "I’ll bring something anyway. Just rest."

Minutes later, the door creaked open, and Angelo reappeared, a takeout container in hand.

You squinted at the container in confusion, seeing the familiar yellow noodles. "You made ramen?"

Angelo's face was a mixture of embarrassment and determination. "It’s terrible," he said, shrugging. "But we’re eating it."

Despite the overwhelming sadness, a soft laugh escaped your lips. As you took a bite, the tears fell. They were tears of sorrow, yes, but also of love, of the strange comfort in knowing that even in the darkest moments, there was light.

Angelo watched you carefully as you ate, his gaze lingering on you with a mixture of concern and tenderness. When you finished, he moved closer.

"We will try again one day, love," he said softly, his voice low and steady. "But for now… we need to heal."