I wake with a knot already twisted in my stomach. The weight of the day settles into my chest before my eyes even open. Today is our counseling session.

  And I could cancel.

  Blame a schedule conflict, a bad headache, a prior obligation we can’t get out of. I could make it sound reasonable. Something that can’t be questioned.

  It’s smarter to wait until whatever’s been off with Adrian settles down or until I know whether there’s any truth to Alarica’s warning.

  I decide not to wait. Today, I will finally bring it up, the ache that took root months ago and never really left.

  It isn’t just a baby.

  It’s a bridge. Back to the nights when we would fall asleep tangled together, not these polite inches of mattress we live between now. Back to the dream I still cling to when no one’s looking.

  In the mirror, the silence fills with everything unsaid. I press my palm against my belly, feeling the hollow ache beneath my skin, flat and tense, quietly throbbing. The words live in my mouth, a prayer I’m too afraid to speak.

  Not yet.

  But soon.

  Adrian sits beside me in the waiting room, scrolling on his phone like we aren’t perched on the fault line of our marriage. His foot taps against the floor. I count the beats.

  Maybe if I say it right, it’ll bring us back to life. Not just as parents. As the people we were when touch still meant something.

  The television blares a dumb Hallmark movie, all forced smiles and predictable promises, but I can’t hear it over the noise in my head. Grief presses in from every direction. The baby I lost, the warning from a stranger who knew my husband’s name. The small things I’ve noticed since, details I tell myself mean nothing if I don’t look too closely. In a few minutes, I’ll walk into that room and say the words out loud. My chest tightens at the thought.

  Another couple sits two rows ahead. The woman’s blonde ponytail sways as she rests her head on her partner’s shoulder. He wraps an arm around her, presses a kiss to her forehead.

  Longing swells in my chest.

  I try to breathe through it, but the ache only deepens, pressing against my ribs until it has nowhere else to go.

  “Callahan?”

  I jolt to my feet faster than I mean to.

  Adrian slips his phone into his pocket and rises slowly, like he’s just remembered why we’re here.

  “If you’ll both follow me,” Maris, the therapist says, leading us down a narrow hall that smells faintly of rainwater and dust.

  I sit on the edge of the couch, hands folded tight in my lap. The therapist looks like she belongs in a library—gray cardigan, hair in a low bun, someone who prefers pages to people. She settles behind her desk, chair creaking softly, uncaps her pen, flips on her recorder.

  Then she smiles, practiced and gentle, nudging her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

  “So, Selene, Adrian—how have things been going?”

  I don’t wait.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I say, turning toward Adrian. I just want it out. I can’t take the pressure building in my chest anymore.

  “I want to try for another baby.”

  I don’t wait for a yes. I wait for proof he can still feel what’s between us.

  Adrian won’t look at me.

  The space thickens, heavy with what he doesn’t say. His jaw locks. I hear the faint scrape of his teeth. Dark stubble lines his cheeks, rough against skin pulled tight. His calm expression can’t hide the weariness stitched into him.

  Still, nothing.

  Something inside me breaks.

  I watch the side of his face, willing him to meet my eyes. To give me anything. A flicker. A crack.

  There’s nothing.

  Just my words hanging there, unanswered.

  He stands.

  Say something, I beg silently.

  “I have to go to work,” he says flatly.

  The cushions rise as his weight lifts. The absence is louder than any argument. He doesn’t look back. The door snaps shut, the sound slicing the room clean in two.

  I stare at the space he left behind. My body is rigid. My face stays neutral.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The therapist looks at me, sympathy already forming.

  “Selene—”

  “Don’t.”

  It comes out sharper than I mean it to. I squeeze my eyes shut, drag my hands through my curls, shove them back from my face.

  “Just… don’t.”

  I don’t cry.

  Not when the door slams.

  Not when the therapist says my name like it’s a wound.

  Not when the receptionist offers me a mint and a pitying smile. But the second I get to the car, the mask cracks.

  I slam the door so hard the whole car shudders. My breathing turns short and furious. I bury my face in my hands, curls falling forward like a shield.

  “Fuck you,” I whisper.

  Then louder.

  “Fuck you!”

  Not just to Adrian. To every time I tried. To the voice that told me to make the appointment. To the faith that still hangs around, moldy and useless.

  I lean forward, forehead pressed to the steering wheel. Heat rises behind my ribs, crawls up my throat, and spills out in a scream that startles even me.

  I scream until my throat feels scraped raw. I pound the dashboard once. Twice. Three times.

  “Stupid. Fucking stupid.”

  Why did I think he’d hear me? Why did I believe that room—those chairs, those careful words—could fix something that’s been rotting for almost a year now?

  I yank open the glove compartment, grab the counseling pamphlet, rip it in half. Then again. Paper shreds like dry leaves beneath my nails.

  “You don’t get to be the calm one,” I spit at the empty passenger seat. “You don’t get to walk away like I broke us.”

  The tears come. I don’t wipe them away. They burn.

  They should.

  Adrian’s hoodie sits crumpled on the seat, leftover from last week, his scent still clinging to it. I stare at it.

  Then I grab it, shove the window down, and throw it into the parking lot.

  It lands with a soft, stupid thud.

  I watch it sit there, bold in its deceit.

  My hands are still shaking when I put the car in reverse.

  I don’t go home. I’m not ready.

  I drive to the lake, pull into the empty gravel lot, and scream again, my voice tearing out of me this time, louder than before. Into my coat. Into the wind. Into the space where my voice finally has room.

  I scream until my throat goes hoarse.

  The anger doesn’t leave.

  Neither does the pain.

  “Excuse me!” the woman banged on the reception desk, jarring Alarica back to reality.

  “Oh—y-yes,” she stammered, “I’m sorry. How can I help you?”

  The woman planted her hands on her hips.

  “I’ve been standing back there for ten minutes, while you sat staring into space. I have an appointment that I need to check in for. If I’m late because of you—if they cancel—I’ll be speaking to your supervisor.”

  She leaned over the counter, squinting at the name badge. “Alar-reeka,” she read aloud, each syllable deliberate.

  Alarica typed her credentials into the computer, “I’ll get you taken care of right away. I’ll just need your I.D.”.

  The woman rolled her eyes. She dug through her purse, fingers scraping against keys, receipts, and the sharp edge of a lipstick tube. “Where is it,” she muttered, voice clipped.

  Her movements grew rougher, impatient. She yanked items out one by one—phone, pen, crumpled papers—and slammed them onto the counter. Each thud was louder than the last.

  Her jaw tightened. The strap of her bag slipped from her shoulder, and she shoved it back up with a sharp motion. “Unbelievable,” she hissed, rifling deeper, breath quick and uneven.

  “Don’t worry about it; just tell me your name.” Alarica gave a polite smile.

  “Jessica Stantley, I’m here for a barium swallow test.”

  “I’ve got you pulled up. I’ll print your papers; so you can have a seat. They will call you as soon as they’re ready.”

  The woman spun away from Alarica without another word. Alarica closed her eyes, bringing her fingertips to her temple.

  “Hey, Larry. You need some help out here?”

  She jolted in her chair, heart thudding hard against her ribs. Spinning around, she found a man in a security uniform standing behind her.

  “You okay?” he asked. “I was just letting you know I’m back from break — looks like you’ve got a line forming.”

  She swept her short hair behind her ear and shook her head. “No, Jason. I’ve got it. The computer froze for a moment,” she lied.

  “Pull yourself together,” Alarica muttered to herself.

  “Okay, I’ll take the next person to testing,” he said.

  The rest of the day went by as a blur. Alarica couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in her gut. Another woman was paying for the choices she made.

  Maybe I should just do as he said and stay out his marriage. I shouldn’t care anymore.

  But she did.

  Alarica gathered her things and headed for the time clock. Jason was already there. The screen glowed 6:59 p.m.

  “Pretty busy today, huh?” he said.

  “Yeah,” she exhaled. “They just kept coming.”

  She waited, watching the seconds tick over, then swiped her badge the moment it hit 7:00.

  “See you tomorrow.” She adjusted her bag on her shoulder and turned to leave.

  Jason cleared his throat. “Hey, Larry.”

  Alarica glanced over her shoulder.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, thumb brushing the edge of his watchband. “Wanna head out and grab a drink?”

  “I don’t do dates with men from work, Jason.” Alarica’s tone was flat. She maintained eye contact.

  “Oh, this wasn’t a date. Some of us are meeting The Aura.” He gave a small, uneasy smile that didn’t quite settle on his face. “But thanks for making that clear; you don’t date men from work. Got it.” He motioned a thumbs up and rushed past her.

  “Have a good night.”

  What an embarrassment. Alarica covered her face with her hands. I’ve gotta get out of here.

  That evening, I move through the kitchen like a shadow. My hands scrub dishes I don’t remember using. My eyes stay fixed on the swirling water.

  The front door opens and closes again.

  I don’t bother turning around.

  He comes up behind me, crowding my space, and before I can move, his hands lock onto me.

  Air tears from my lungs.

  A plate slips from my hands and explodes against the floor. Something bites deep into my palm, sharp and burning. Red streaks the porcelain.

  My knees buckle.

  Then his hand slides under my shirt.

  My nose crinkles.

  Wine.

  His fingers circle my nipple with cruel tenderness. My body responds before my brain can catch up.

  My skin heats where he touches me, the warmth sinking low and coiling hard, my body answering him before my mind can catch up.

  His other hand clamps around my waist, pinning me. He buries his nose in my curls—hibiscus and coconut oil. His breath drags hot against my neck. My heart slams against my chest. Then he shifts.

  The world jolts white as my spine slams into the counter, breath knocked loose, every nerve screaming awake.

  The water keeps running.

  Adrian grips my face, his fingers digging into my cheeks until I can’t breathe through my mouth. My eyes lock with his—empty, cold.

  “Don’t do that again,” he says, his words laced with a hidden warning.

  His thumb brushes over the cut in my palm as if he’s only just noticing it. Slow. Deliberate. My mouth hangs open, hesitation trembling at the edge of speech. The moment holds me still.

  He says nothing more. He releases me, turns, and walks out.

  The door clicks shut.

  I stand there, hand bleeding, chest heaving. The kitchen looks the same.

  Nothing bears witness.

  Outside, wind chimes clink, too normal for what just passed through me.

  The hum of the fridge meets the sink’s tireless flow, both steady and indifferent. And I—cut and cracked—remain upright. Because collapse is a luxury I no longer allow myself.

  I reached for our future.

  And he answered with control.

  I press my palm to my chest. The blood is warm and slick, spreading, impossible to miss.

  I don’t say it out loud.

  The faucet keeps whispering, steady and relentless, like water gathering at the edge of a fall.