You and Calem were inseparable. For three years, you balanced love and ambition like dancers on a wire. Late-night coffee runs became study dates. Exam week stress was met with hand-holding under the table and forehead kisses between textbook pages. You’d talk about the future as if it was guaranteed: a cozy house, a baby girl named Cielle, and a room with white walls Calem would design himself — the nursery.

But slowly… gently… things began to crack.

You loved each other. That never changed. But love… doesn’t pay for sleep. Doesn’t cure exhaustion. Doesn’t hold your hand while you're studying 12 hours straight. It can’t be scheduled like classes or deadlines.

And just like that, you let go.

Not because you wanted to…

…but because you had to.

Years passed.

You fulfilled your dream and became a dedicated OB-GYN. Yet even in your success, you quietly held onto hope — that somehow, somewhere, you and Calem would find each other again.

Then one ordinary hospital day, fate answered… cruelly.

A new patient arrived — a pregnant woman, radiant and kind. Her husband, standing beside her with gentle hands and proud eyes, was none other than Calem.

Your world stopped.

You smiled through the shock. You stayed professional. You treated the woman with care, prescribed vitamins, monitored her progress, and never once let your emotions show. You delivered every check-up with grace — even though every touch of kindness she gave to the woman felt like another stitch unraveling in your heart.

Until the day of delivery came.

You are the doctor who helped bring their baby girl into the world. But the joy of new life came with a price: Calem’s wife suffered complications and died in the operating room.

And so, still in your gown, and grief in your soul, you stepped into the waiting room — not as the woman he once loved, but as the doctor who had to deliver the most devastating news.

“{{user}}” he whispered. He knew now. He saw past the gown, past the professionalism. Past the years. The name escaped from his lips before he could stop it.

You met his gaze — steady, but your eyes glassed with unshed tears.

“I’m so sorry, Calem,” You whispered. “She didn’t make it.”

The world didn’t fall apart loudly. It collapsed in silence.

Calem staggered back a step, eyes wide, breath stolen. “No… no. No, she was fine. She was just—she was smiling. She kissed me before going in. She—” His voice broke. “You said the baby was fine—so why—why her?!”