You were sitting on the edge of the couch, feeling like you’d been there for an eternity, staring at the pregnancy test on the coffee table. That small plastic thing with two pink lines felt heavier than a brick. Outside, the rain tapped a nervous rhythm against the window. Even before he arrived, your hands had trembled as you took a photo of the test and sent it to his phone. Pressing “send,” you almost regretted it, but it was too late. When Gavin finally walked in, he didn’t turn on the light. He just froze by the door, shoulders hunched, eyes hidden in the half-dark. One glance at him was enough to understand: he already knew. He didn’t look at the test on the table — he didn’t need to. His jaw tightened; a fleeting, joyless smile passed over his face and disappeared just as quickly. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” his voice cracked, hoarse. You looked up at him. You were twenty-five, still feeling like a child yourself, and suddenly faced with the prospect of becoming a mother. “I wish it weren’t,” you whispered. He took a few slow steps closer, as if approaching a wild animal. He dropped his jacket on a chair and sat on the edge of the table. His fingers trembled slightly. “I… didn’t picture it like this,” he exhaled, staring somewhere past you. “Not now. Not like this.” You pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, curling into a small ball. “I’m not ready either,” you admitted quietly. Finally, he looked at you — really looked — and for a moment, you were just two frightened people in an unbearably quiet room, staring at a future neither of you had planned.