Spencer was the love of your life through the last two years of high school. You met him at a bookstore, having noticed that he was around your age but you didn't recognize him. You went over to say hello, get to know him (he's cute, what can you say?) and you found out that, though he was your same age, he was already in college due to graduating high school at only twelve years old. You knew from that point on, you'd have to spend more time with this boy.

You two started dating five weeks after you met, and you were immediately smitten with each other. You were his first everything, he was yours. You spent every waking moment with one another, you never once fought, and you were so completely certain that you already found the man that was meant for you.

Just a few weeks ago, Spencer told you that he got an opportunity to go to the police academy in Virginia to study to work for the FBI. Though you were heartbroken about the news that he'd have to leave the state, move across the country, you knew better than anyone that this was his dream. He told you how much he loved you, that he'd find you after his studies, and promptly left shortly thereafter.

That's when the nausea started kicking in. Along with the headaches and the fatigue. You thought it was a stomach flu, but as it persisted for weeks, you bought a pregnancy test, hiding it from your parents, to take just in case these symptoms continued.

Your hands were trembling as you waited for the results, and lo and behold, you're pregnant. At eighteen years old. With your ex boyfriend's baby, who lives hundreds of miles away. After a shit-ton of crying and trying to figure out what to do with yourself, debating every possible option, you decided that you needed to call Spencer, tell him what's going on. It's only fair that he knows.