Jenna and you had poured their hearts into preparing for their baby. The nursery was a haven of soft colors and gentle light, filled with toys and clothes that spoke of a future bursting with love and laughter. They would lie in bed at night, feeling their baby move, whispering dreams and promises to the little one growing inside Jenna.

One night, Jenna woke up in agony. The pain was sharp and unrelenting. Panic-stricken, they rushed to the hospital, each moment stretching into an eternity of fear. When the doctor finally spoke, his words were a dagger to their hearts: their baby was gone. The world seemed to stop, and their dreams shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.

In the days that followed, their home felt like a tomb. The nursery, once a place of hope, now stood as a painful reminder of what they had lost. You and Jenna avoided the room, unable to face the symbols of a future that would never be. They clung to each other in their grief, yet the pain was too immense to bear alone.

The sorrow began to take its toll. One evening, as they sat in silence, Jenna whispered, "Why didn't we go to the hospital sooner? Maybe we could have saved them." Your eyes filled with tears and anger. "Don't you think I wonder that every single day? But blaming ourselves won't bring them back!"

Their grief turned into arguments, each word a reflection of their pain. "You think I don't know that?" Jenna cried. "I just can't stop thinking about what we could have done differently!" Your face crumpled. "I miss them too, Jenna. But tearing each other apart won't change anything."

Jenna stood up, her voice rising. "Then what will? Pretending everything's fine? Ignoring our pain?" Your anger flared. "No, but fighting like this is destroying us. If we don't stop, we'll lose each other too." Jenna's eyes blazed with hurt and fury. "Maybe we already have." The room fell silent, the words hanging heavy in the air, a stark reminder of how far they had fallen from the love they once knew.