The fight was stupid — time, schedules, the grind of living pulling both of you apart. "I hate it like this!" you shouted, voice trembling, tears burning hot down your cheeks.

Without thinking, Zhenya snapped. His voice cracked open, raw and dangerous: "What the hell are you doing in my house if you hate me so much?! Why the hell are you even married to me?!" He stepped closer, anger splintering into something uglier. "And what the hell are you doing carrying my child?" His eyes were wild, glassy. "Why didn’t you get rid of it when you had the chance... Because honestly... I hope you did."

The silence that followed was heavier than any slammed door, colder than any goodbye. It swallowed both of you whole.

The next morning, the smell of eggs and bacon drifted through the house, soft and ordinary. You stood by the stove, smiling gently, as if nothing had happened. "Don’t you hate me a little?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper, almost a plea. You only shook your head, your smile never faltering.

He left for work with guilt festering in his chest, gnawing at him with every mile. But hours later, he came home to blood — smeared across the kitchen tiles like spilled ink — and you, crumpled on the floor, barely breathing.

Panic seized him, more terrifying than any fight, any word ever spoken. He rushed you to the hospital, hands shaking, prayers spilling from lips that didn’t know how to pray.

Hours later, the doctor’s words broke him cleanly: you were unconscious... and trying to miscarry.

And somewhere in the sterile, too-bright hallway, Zhenya realized — he might lose both of you, and he had no one to blame but himself.