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𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 (𝙸)

I didn’t see it coming. Not even a whisper of it. We never talked about kids. We talked about our mess, and getting away, and maybe running off to Paris just to start fights in French. But diapers? No. Never.

I thought we’d have time. Time to just be us. Loud, messy, unbothered. I thought we’d wake up in different cities, miss flights on purpose, kiss in the back of taxis at 3 a.m. I thought we had us before we had anyone else. And yet. Here we are.

One second we’re driving home, my hand on her thigh, talking about running off somewhere stupid, and the next, I’m in a hospital corridor, knees on the floor, watching the woman I love get wheeled away, unresponsive.

Then they said it. She’s pregnant.

And the world stopped spinning.

I didn’t find out with soft music playing or some dumb test in a pastel bathroom. No. I found out through panic. Through a doctor with a clipboard saying the words I swore I’d never hear attached to my name. Through her pale skin and the terror in her voice when she whispered, that I don't have to stay.

But fuck, I wanted to run. Not from her. Not from the kid. From myself. From everything I thought I was and every version of me that said, you’re not made for this.

Because I’m not.

The thing is… I don’t know how to be someone’s safe place. I know how to be the problem. How to push buttons. How to ignite. But to protect? To show up and stay when shit hits the fan?

In that moment, I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or run full speed into a wall. So I did the only thing I could - I left. I walked out. Straight out of the building, where two doctors were on a smoke break. I’ve never touched a cigarette in my life, but I took one. Lit it. Burned the inside of my lungs until they matched my insides.