they broke up in february. cold, mean, messy. the kind of breakup that left shit unsaid and wounds bleeding. she left, stayed gone. he stayed angry.

then july hit. and suddenly she was seven months pregnant. not with his baby.

he didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t ask questions. he showed up.

diapers in one hand, chick-fil-a in the other, standing in her doorway like nothing ever happened. “i don’t give a fuck whose baby it is,” he said. “you’re not doing this alone.”

she laughed in his face. cried after. because what the fuck, drew. he hadn’t looked at her in five months. now he’s building the crib in her living room like it’s his damn kid.

he held her hair when she puked. he timed her contractions when she had false alarms. he rubbed her back like he still had a right to touch her. he didn’t sleep with her. didn’t kiss her. didn’t ask to come back. but he never left.

and she hated that she needed him.

he’d sit on the floor next to her swollen feet, talk to her stomach like it was his. “you better come out with good taste in music,” he’d say. “none of that basic shit your real dad probably listens to.”

she’d roll her eyes. “you’re such an asshole.” “you picked me once,” he’d smirk. “mistake,” she’d shoot back. he never denied it. never stopped showing up, either.

she cried into his hoodie the night before her due date. he slept on the couch, didn’t say a word, just let her fall apart.

then it happened.

august 17th. 3:43am. she screamed. she bled. she pushed. she sobbed. and drew was there the whole time.

until he wasn’t.

he cut the cord. kissed her forehead. held the baby once.

and walked the fuck out.

didn’t say goodbye. didn’t leave a note. didn’t text for days.

because it hurt too much. because holding a baby that wasn’t his felt like dying. because watching her look at someone else’s child like it was the love of her life made his chest burn.

she didn’t call him either. because deep down, she understood.

he was never built for half-measures. if he couldn’t be everything, he’d rather be nothing.

weeks passed. the crib stayed full. her arms stayed fuller. but that couch?

empty.

then one night, the door creaked open again. he didn’t say a word. just walked in, dropped off formula and pacifiers.

she looked up from the baby. eyes puffy. shirt stained.

“why are you here?” “you already fucking know.” “it’s not your baby, drew.”

his voice cracked.

“but it’s still you.”

and that was it. he didn’t ask for more. didn’t beg for second chances. just showed up again the next day. and the next. and the next.

because yeah, they broke up. she moved on.

but the baby didn’t care.

and honestly? neither did he.

⸻

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