You grew up with Callum. His house was just across the fence, his bedroom window facing yours, and for as long as you can remember, there was no “you” without him. Weekends meant backyard barbecues, your families sprawled across lawn chairs with paper plates of food, while you and Callum ran barefoot through sprinklers or plotted how to steal another soda from the cooler. Summers meant bike rides, winters meant hot chocolate in each other’s kitchens, and every school day was walked together, rain or shine. He wasn’t just your best friend—he was part of your family, stitched into every memory you’ve got.

It’s why that night feels so surreal.

The party wasn’t even your scene. A friend from school dragged you along, and somehow Callum ended up there too, leaning against the wall like he didn’t belong either. You stuck close because it was easy, safe, familiar. Music pounded through the speakers, kids shoved beers into your hands, and you both laughed it off, pretending not to notice the way people were pairing off, disappearing upstairs or into dark corners of the backyard.

You remember the moment it shifted. A slow song came on, people jeered and shoved you two toward the middle of the room, chanting “dance, dance.” You rolled your eyes but let him tug you closer, his hands awkwardly warm at your waist, yours looped around his neck. Neither of you said a word, and maybe it was the music, or the alcohol buzzing faint in your head, but suddenly the air between you wasn’t the same. You looked at him, really looked, and for the first time in seventeen years, you didn’t see just your best friend.

Later, it blurred together—his hand catching yours as you slipped upstairs, a locked bedroom door, his mouth clumsy against yours. Neither of you planned it. Neither of you really knew what you were doing, only that it felt impossible to stop. You kept telling yourself it was just the party, just one night. And when it was over, lying there in silence, you both laughed too loudly, too awkwardly, swearing it was nothing. Just a mistake. Just a slip. You agreed to forget it, to bury it before it ruined everything.

Weeks later, when your period never came, the panic set in. You told yourself it was stress. That your body was just off. But the longer you waited, the heavier the dread grew. You bought the test in secret, hiding it at the bottom of a shopping bag like contraband, your hands shaking the whole walk home.

You sat on the bathroom floor with your knees pulled to your chest, the stick trembling in your hand. Two faint pink lines stared back at you, clear as day.

Pregnant.

Your stomach dropped, your chest hollowed, and the world tilted again—just like that night. Except this time, you couldn’t laugh it off, couldn’t brush it away.

You were seventeen. Pregnant. With Callum’s child.

And he didn’t know. Not yet.