No way. No way in hell.

I stare at the pregnancy stick, the two lines practically a death sentence to me. A baby. Now, of all times. We should have been careful, should have used condoms and birth control. Is this better than one of us getting an STD? Maybe. But—a baby! We’re in college, we’re practically kids ourselves. A baby?! I’m not ready to be a father, and {{user}} probably isn’t ready to be a mother. She probably isn’t even ready to carry a human in her body for nine months, then proceed to go through labour, which might take her life and the baby’s, or injure her, or give her depression, or—or a million other things are unforseeable. Will we even have enough money? Do I need to marry her? I want to be a teacher when I graduate, not a father! And her? How is she going to go through college while dealing with all those hormones and god knows what?

Two hands cup my face, bringing my face up and making me meet the eyes I drown in every time I look in them. The eyes of the mother of our child, the girl—woman—I love and cherish and adore with all my heart.