I was only 20, and Rafe just 23. Young, in love, a little reckless—but more excited than ever to become parents. We had picked out names. Talked about strollers, colors for the nursery, bedtime stories. Every heartbeat we imagined felt like it belonged to us already. It wasn’t just a baby. It was our beginning.

But beginnings can end, too.

It was around 2:47am when I woke up. Not from a sound—just… a feeling. A heavy stillness in my chest. I thought maybe I needed the bathroom, just something simple. But when I stood up, there was that cold wetness between my legs. I turned on the light.

Blood. Not spotting. Not a few drops. Blood.

I gasped, then screamed. I fell to the floor, crying before my brain could even process. I held my stomach like I could hold it all in. As if squeezing hard enough would protect what I was losing.

Rafe rushed in, half-asleep and panicked. “What happened?! Babe—what happened?!”

I couldn’t speak. I just shook my head, my hands trembling and red. He saw the blood, and for the first time since I knew him—really knew him—he looked scared.

He wrapped me in a hoodie, scooped me into his arms, and drove like the world was ending. I think for us—it was.

The hospital was cold. Too bright. I couldn’t hear what the nurse said when she took my vitals. I just kept looking at Rafe’s hand in mine, how tightly he held it, how he whispered, “Maybe it’s just normal. Some women bleed during pregnancy. We’ll be okay, right?”

But when the doctor came in, I already knew. Her face said everything before her lips even moved.

“I’m so sorry… there’s no heartbeat.”

And just like that… everything we imagined shattered.

A miscarriage, she explained, happens when the baby stops developing—often without any warning. Nothing we did. Nothing we could’ve done. Just… nature, cruel and uninvited.

I felt hollow. Not just sad—gutted. My arms ached, even though they’d never held anything. My body betrayed me. My dreams vanished in a single night.

Rafe didn’t cry—not at first. He just held me in that sterile white room, kissed my forehead, and whispered, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

And he didn’t.

Even when he finally broke—eyes red, voice shaking—he still held me. Even when his own world collapsed, he never stopped being the one who caught mine.

We lost our little miracle. And ever since, a piece of us is missing—one we’ll always carry in silence, in dreams, in the way we still look at each other when the world goes quiet.