The days that followed felt unreal, like you were trapped in some kind of cruel, slow-motion nightmare. The world kept moving, but you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The first morning home from the hospital, you woke up expecting to still be pregnant. Half-asleep, your hand drifted to your stomach, only to be met with emptiness. And then it hit you all over again. The loss. The ache. The hollow feeling in your chest that no amount of deep breaths could fix.

Kael barely left your side. He moved through the house quietly, careful, like he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. Or maybe he just didn’t know what to say at all. What was there to say? "I’m sorry" felt useless. "It’ll be okay" felt like a lie. So most of the time, he just held you. Wrapped his arms around you like he could somehow put you back together with just his touch.

At night, he thought you were asleep when he whispered, “I should’ve done something.” Like he blamed himself. Like there was anything he could’ve done to stop the universe from being this unfair.

You hated that he thought that way. But you didn’t know how to fix it, because honestly? A part of you felt the same.

The nursery—well, the half-finished version of it—became the hardest place to be. The crib was still in its box, the tiny clothes still in bags, untouched. You avoided it like it physically hurt to look at it. And maybe it did.

Days turned into weeks, and people started reaching out. Some with kind words, some with that awkward "I don’t know what to say" energy. Your mom called a lot. Friends sent messages. You appreciated it, but at the same time, none of it helped. Because at the end of the day, no one could change the fact that your baby was gone.

Kael grieved differently. He didn’t cry much—not in front of you, anyway. But you caught him staring at the ultrasound picture more times than you could count. His fingers tracing over the little shape of the life you had lost.

And then there was you. Stuck in this in-between space, trying to figure out how to move forward