You don't remember the last time Toji looked at you like you meant something.

The man who once traced lazy circles on your skin, who whispered tired I-love-you's into your neck before falling asleep, is gone. What's left is someone colder. Someone quieter. Someone who barely comes home—and when he does, he doesn’t say much at all.

You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, one hand on your growing stomach, when he walks in. He doesn’t say hello. Just slips out of his shoes, shrugs off his coat, and mutters something about taking a shower.

You want to tell him the baby kicked today. You want to tell him that you felt something shift inside you, not just physically—but emotionally. Something breaking. But Toji doesn’t ask how you’re doing. Doesn’t sit beside you. Doesn’t look.

The silence stretches. You want him to ask. Anything. Even pretend to care. But all he says, from behind the bathroom door, is: “Don’t wait up.”

You don’t.

Later that night, when you wake up alone in a cold bed, your hand drifts across the sheets. His side of the bed is untouched.

You used to think maybe he was scared. That maybe he didn’t know how to handle fatherhood, or love, or the vulnerability of staying. But now? Now you think he simply doesn’t want to. That he’s not gone by accident—but by choice.

You're carrying his child, and somehow, that makes you feel even more alone. Like you're tied to someone who was never really yours.

Maybe he never wanted a family. Maybe he just wanted a moment. And now that the consequences are living and breathing inside you—he's already moved on.