The house was quiet. Just the hum of the fridge and the rustle of wind outside the window.

You were cleaning the kitchen — not really cleaning, just… distracting. Avoiding.

The test sat on the counter like it was radioactive. You didn’t want to look.

Three months late. Five tests taken before. All negative. Each one a punch to the ribs.

You weren’t expecting anything. Just needed to rule it out before another round of silent disappointment.

The timer buzzed.

You turned around, slow. Breath held. Chest tight.

Two lines.

Your knees almost gave out.

You stared for what felt like an hour. Then — laughter. Disbelief. A hand over your mouth. A trembling breath.

You (whispering to yourself): "Ellie… oh my god…"

You grabbed the test, already running for the door, forgetting your coat, your shoes, everything — just the test in hand, heart racing.