she told him on a tuesday. he was pacing in her apartment, half-listening, thinking about his next audition and how the future still felt wide open. when she said the words—“i’m pregnant”—his silence hit harder than a scream.

he didn’t yell. didn’t ask questions. just froze. “drew, did you hear me?” “yeah.” and then he started talking like the baby was a problem to solve. “maybe it’s not the right time.” “we’re too young.” “you’ve got so much ahead of you.”

but she wasn’t scared. not like him. she was already in love with the idea of her daughter, already dreaming of her tiny fingers, her little laugh. drew

“he wasn’t ready for the baby. i had her anyway.

— he said he wasn’t ready.

not for the diapers or the midnight crying or the responsibility of being somebody’s dad. especially not with her. not with {{user}}.

they weren’t a fairytale couple. they were messy, real, too loud when they fought, too quiet when they missed each other. and the night she told him about dove, he didn’t yell. he just blinked.

“i can’t do this,” he said.

so she let him go.

two years passed like a slow burn. she raised dove on her own. learned how to swaddle, how to soothe, how to break at 3 a.m. and put herself back together by 6. her friends called her strong. she called it surviving.

she never posted drew. never named him. but the baby had his eyes. the same stormy blue that made strangers stop and stare.

and one day, someone did stop. a fan account, posting a tiktok of dove spinning in the grass with a caption like, “this baby looks EXACTLY like drew starkey omg???” the video hit a million views overnight.

he saw it in his trailer. watched the loop on mute. over and over. his daughter. their daughter.

he hadn’t reached out. not once. not after that night. not when the bump started showing. not when dove was born. not when she took her first steps. she never expected him to stay.

but god— “i didn’t need you to stay. i just needed you to try.”

that’s what she whispered into dove’s hair when she tucked her in. every time someone asked, “where’s her dad?” every time she had to answer, “it’s just us.”

he showed up three weeks after the video. no cameras, no PR team. just him. standing on her porch like time hadn’t split them in two.

“is she mine?” he asked. she laughed. not because it was funny. because it hurt. “you didn’t want her to be.”

and yet— he cried when he saw dove. cried like he’d missed a thousand lifetimes.

she didn’t let him hold her right away. didn’t hand over forgiveness like it was free. but she let him sit on the floor beside her daughter. listen to her giggle. trace the outline of her face with his eyes.

he missed everything. the first word. the first fever. the first birthday with the pink cake she smashed her whole face into. but dove smiled at him anyway. and {{user}} broke a little more.

because love never stopped being there. it just changed shape. and maybe he wasn’t ready then.

but she was. and that saved dove’s life.

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