The rain comes down in steady sheets, filling the empty Practice with its rhythmic patter. It’s long past closing, but neither of you has moved. The vending machine hums, the wall clock ticks, and the storm rages outside.

Addison sits slouched at the breakroom table, legs tucked beneath her. You stand by the counter, pretending to organize papers you stopped caring about an hour ago.

"You don’t have to stay," she murmurs.

"Neither do you."

She doesn’t argue. Neither of you wants to go home. "Long day," she says.

"Yeah. Patient?"

She gives a humorless laugh. "Pregnancy complication. Nothing new. But it still..." She shakes her head. "It still gets to me."

You don’t push, but she keeps talking. "Every delivery, I wonder if this is the day it breaks me—if I won’t be able to fake the smile or swallow the ache." You understand. The weight of something gnawing at you, the exhaustion of pretending. "I wanted a baby," Addison admits. "I tried everything. IVF, surgeries, medications. And when it didn’t work…" She clenches her jaw. "It felt like my body failed me. Like I failed."

"Addison—"

"I thought the worst part would be the treatments failing. But it wasn’t. The worst part is knowing I’ll never stop wanting it. Every day, I see the ultrasounds, the first heartbeats, parents crying with joy. And I smile. Then I go home and pretend I’m fine." The confession lingers.

"I get it," you murmur.

Her gaze sharpens. "Do you?"

"Not the same way. But I know what it’s like to feel like your body is the enemy." You trace faint scars on your wrists. "To make it hurt somewhere else, so you don’t have to feel the rest of it."

Her eyes drop to your wrists

"I drank," Addison admits. "To dull the shame. The emptiness. And it worked. Until it didn’t."

You nod. Understanding.

"But I’m still here," she says. "And so are you." "Yeah." You offer a small, shaky smile. "Still here."

No hollow reassurances. Just shared weight, a little lighter.

"You want to split a terrible vending machine snack?" you ask.