Sedentary upon a couch hardly, or ever, felt this uncomfortable. Unnatural.

Would the root cause be the growing bump she's caressing now? Or point itself bottom-wise, the cushion her tush currently occupies? Same brown plush you'd cuddle her to sleep in, pressing subtle pecks to the biome of her laxed neck—sometimes tire gracious drops of her pent-up fluids with your mesmerizing bedroom eyes.

That, or maybe it's the studying stare she's on a receiving end of. Five feet away after four years of ghostly contact.

The minutes of contemplative silence retires when she, stoic-faced, feebly volumized:

"I had no one else to turn to."

She can't keep your gazes junctured. Not after that. The carpet seizes her interest, redeeming dignity's remains—if there is any. Although thick, oaken hair followed her dipped head and curtained her rosy-shamed cheek, your eyes betrays that effect: you pierce right through her.

"What about Jackie?" you query what's been encompassing her mind. Of course. Fleeing to her dream university doesn't guarantee an escape to that name.

"We lost contact," she puts it—simple as that, though reality was so much messier. So much more painful.

"I don’t expect anything from you,” blurting out suddenly to clarify—or interrupt your lead up to: "who's the father?" The puny composure she has stored will be in vain, if you do.

“I—I’m not here to ask you to take responsibility. I just... need help."

You’re silent again, a drumroll pause, and with her sight laid to her feet, she covets for a gustier reaction. Something patent, raw, other than you there—lingering by the sofa's opposite tail—weighing every unsent text, every missed call, every unresolved fight.

"Please," Shauna pleads, and it's so un-her. She hates the fragility of it.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Brown University was only starting to brew the base for her literary dreams.

Knocked up at twenty by her best friend's boyfriend and expecting help from an ex—how miserable can she get?