July passed in a blur, and I'm not even sure how to explain that properly. It didn't feel fast while I was living through it, but when I tried to look back, it was like whole days had just… slipped. Work, the beach, going home, sleeping, repeating. Everything blended together until I couldn't tell one day from another.
I kept telling myself I wasn't thinking about Sebastian Brooks. I said it so many times in my head that it almost started to sound believable. Almost. But then something small would happen, something completely random, and there he was again. The way he used to stand behind me in the kitchen, the way his voice sounded when he said my name, the way things used to feel so easy before they weren't.
Why is it always the small things that stay?
He didn't call. Not once. Didn't text. Didn't try to show up or check on me. Nothing.
And the annoying part is… that's exactly what he said he would do. He told me he'd give me space, that he'd let me decide. So why did it feel like I was the only one carrying the weight of that decision?
At first, I told myself I appreciated it. Really, I did. It gave me time, gave me room to think without feeling pushed. But then days started passing, and that feeling changed into something else. Something harder to ignore.
Because a part of me… a very stubborn part… wanted him to fight.
Is that wrong?
I wanted him to show up. I wanted him to knock on my door again, uninvited, like before, like nothing had changed. I wanted him to make this harder, not easier. I wanted him to take the choice away from me because I didn't trust myself to make it.
But he didn't.
So I kept going. I worked more than I needed to. Stayed longer at the office, volunteered for things I didn't even care about. Anything to avoid sitting still long enough for my thoughts to catch up with me. I started running again, early in the mornings, pushing myself harder than usual. Like if I could just exhaust my body enough, maybe my mind would finally quiet down.
It didn't really work.
I'd sit at my usual spot with an oat milk latte, staring out the window, pretending I was just people-watching like everyone else. But I wasn't. I was thinking. Always thinking.
About him. About us. About what went wrong. About whether it was really over or if we were just pretending it was because it felt easier than fixing it.
And then I'd catch myself and think… what am I even doing?
Pretending became a habit.
Until it didn't anymore.
It started with something small. That's how everything important seems to start, doesn't it? Something small that you almost ignore.
I woke up one morning feeling off. Not sick exactly, just… strange. My stomach felt unsettled, like something wasn't right. I stayed in bed for a little longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what it was.
Maybe it was something I ate?
That's what I told myself. It made sense. It was simple.
So I got up anyway. Got dressed. Went to work. Tried to act normal.
I made it through three meetings before I had to excuse myself and rush to the bathroom. I didn't throw up, but I came close. I stood there for a while, holding onto the sink, waiting for the feeling to pass.
What is wrong with me?
By the time I went back to my desk, I was already brushing it off again. Stress. That had to be it. Everything had been… a lot. Anyone would feel like this.
Right?
But then the next day came, and it was worse.
I woke up with the same feeling, only stronger this time. My body felt heavy, like it didn't want to cooperate. I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time, just breathing, trying to convince myself I was fine.
I still went to work. I don't even know why. Habit, maybe. Or denial. Probably both.
By midday, I couldn't ignore it anymore.
That thought came quietly at first, almost like I didn't want to fully say it in my head.
What if it's not just stress?
I pushed it away immediately. No. It couldn't be. That didn't make sense.
But the thought didn't leave.
It stayed there, sitting at the back of my mind, growing louder the more I tried to ignore it.
On my way home that evening, I stopped at a pharmacy. I stood there longer than I should have, staring at the shelf, my heart beating faster for no real reason.
This is ridiculous, I told myself. I'm overthinking.
So why did my hands feel shaky when I reached for the test?
I didn't think about it too much after that. I couldn't. If I did, I probably would've talked myself out of it.
When I got home, everything felt strangely quiet. Too quiet.
I went straight to the bathroom. Didn't even put my bag down properly. Just stood there for a second, looking at the box in my hands.
What am I doing?
I followed the instructions without really thinking about it. It felt automatic, like my body was moving on its own.
And then I waited.
That was the worst part. The waiting.
I sat on the edge of the tub, staring at the small stick in my hand, my thoughts all over the place.
This is nothing. It's going to be nothing.
Right?
But something in my chest didn't believe that.
When the result appeared, it didn't feel real.
A plus sign.
I stared at it for a long time. Longer than necessary. Like if I looked at it long enough, it would change.
It didn't.
Pregnant.
I'm pregnant?
The words didn't settle immediately. They just floated there, disconnected from everything else.
That doesn't make sense.
And then, slowly, everything started lining up.
The last time Sebastian and I had been together. The timeline. The dates I hadn't really paid attention to.
I started counting without meaning to. December. January. February. March. April. May. June. July.
Seven months.
My breath caught.
Seven months?
My hands moved to my stomach before I could stop them. The same stomach I had been ignoring, covering with loose clothes, blaming on stress, on eating habits, on anything else that felt easier to accept.
How did I not know?
How does someone not know this?
The questions came fast, one after another, and none of them had answers.
I stood up too quickly, pacing the small space of my bathroom, my heart racing.
This can't be real.
But it was.
I looked back at the test again, like it might somehow explain everything.
I'm pregnant. Seven months pregnant. With Sebastian's baby.
The reality of it hit differently the second time. Heavier. More real.
Oh God.
The words came out under my breath, over and over again, like saying them might help me process what was happening.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
I pressed my hand against my stomach again, this time more carefully, like I was suddenly aware of something I hadn't been before.
There's a baby.
Inside me.
How did I miss this?
The next morning felt like a blur. I barely slept. My mind wouldn't stop running in circles, replaying everything, trying to make sense of something that didn't make sense.
I went to a doctor because I needed someone else to tell me it was real. Needed confirmation that I wasn't losing my mind.
And it was real.
Twenty-eight weeks. Healthy heartbeat. Everything normal.
Normal.
How is this normal?
The doctor was kind, calm in a way that almost made it easier to breathe. She explained things, said some women don't show much, especially the first time, said stress can mask symptoms.
Mask them.
I almost laughed at that. Not because it was funny, but because it sounded ridiculous and true at the same time.
I had masked an entire human being.
When I left the clinic, everything felt different. The same world, the same streets, the same sky, but nothing felt the same anymore.
I sat in my car for a long time before driving. Just sitting there, hands on the steering wheel, staring ahead.
Sebastian's baby.
Our baby.
The thought didn't feel as distant this time. It felt real in a way that made my chest tighten.
I picked up my phone. Put it down. Picked it up again.
Should I call him?
Of course I should. He deserves to know.
But then another thought came.
What happens after I tell him?
Because telling him wasn't just telling him. It meant opening something I had barely managed to close. It meant facing everything I had been avoiding.
It meant him coming back into my life.
Am I ready for that?
I didn't have an answer.
I still don't.
So I sat there, phone in my hand, going back and forth, asking myself the same questions over and over again.
What do I even say?
Hey, we're having a baby?
The thought almost made me laugh, but it didn't last. Nothing about this felt simple.
He deserved to know. I knew that. There was no question about it.
But knowing something and being ready to act on it are two different things.
I wasn't ready.
Not yet.
I needed time.
But time was the one thing I didn't have anymore.
And that scared me more than anything else