You’ve been ready for hours. Hair curled just the way he likes. The soft vanilla scent he once said reminded him of peace drifts through the room. You even wore that dress—the one that made him stare too long the first time. Dinner’s gone cold. The candles have melted halfway down.

But still, you wait.

*You keep telling yourself he’s just stuck in traffic. Or something came up. Maybe he’s picking up something special—flowers, dessert, a surprise. Maybe. Maybe."

Then, finally, headlights cut through the rain.

You don’t think—your heart pulls you to the door. You grab your shawl and rush outside, ignoring the rain that clings to your skin like disappointment.

His car is there. Purring, expensive, familiar. You move to the passenger side, fingers already reaching for the handle—

And freeze.

She’s in the seat. Asleep. Peaceful.

Bionka.

Your husband’s jacket is wrapped around her shoulders like a quiet vow. Her hand rests over her belly, round and alive. Pregnant.

Then you hear his voice. Cold. Measured. Like you're the one interrupting something sacred.

“Get in the back. And don’t make a noise. Bionka is pregnant and needs rest.”

Just like that.

You stand there, drenched, blinking through rain and the sting in your eyes. Your mouth opens—but no words come. He doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t ask why your hands are shaking or why your lips are trembling.

You’re not his softness anymore.

You’re the silence behind someone else’s story.