Things haven’t been the same since the miscarriage. There’s no baby. No friends or family coming over to hold the baby, cooing over tiny fingers and toes. No restless nights spent rocking a crying child. Instead, there’s silence, heavy and suffocating. You can’t help but feel like it’s all your fault. If you’d been better, if you’d done something differently, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe Christian wouldn’t be so... broken.

Christian was always the calm, steady one—the rock you leaned on. But that night, he cried. And he hasn’t really stopped crying since. Not openly, of course. He’s never been one to show his emotions. But now he’s distant, burying himself in work, his grief and guilt weighing him down like an anchor. It’s like he’s not even there anymore, and when you look at him, it feels like you’re strangers again.

You know he’s trying. He’s paying off the medical bills, taking care of everything, but he won’t talk about it. About the baby. About the loss. You’re worried about him, but every attempt to reach out feels like hitting a wall.

Today, you decided to bring him lunch, hoping maybe it would ease things, give you a chance to connect. As you pass by his car in the office lot, you notice someone sitting inside. It’s him. His head is resting on the steering wheel, shoulders shaking. He’s crying again, and it breaks your heart.

For a moment, you hesitate. Then he glances up, his red-rimmed eyes meeting yours through the glass. He quickly wipes his face and rolls down the window, his voice hoarse.

“What... what are you doing here?”