Page 14 of Angel
She sighs, sits beside me, and waits. That’s worse than any interrogation. Silence stretches between us. Heavy, patient. Like she knows if she gives me enough room, I’ll fill it.
“I left,” I say finally.
My voice sounds small in this room. Younger than I am.
She nods. “I figured.”
“He thinks I’m obsessed.”
She winces slightly. Not in disagreement. In recognition.
“Are you?” she asks softly.
I open my mouth to argue. To defend myself with charts, logic, science, and proof that doing something is better thandoing nothing. Nothing comes out. Because if I strip it back far enough, beyond the data and the supplements and the temperature spikes, what’s left isn’t logic. It’s fear.
My sister reaches over and takes my hand.
“Stevie… when was the last time you let yourself grieve?”
“Grieve what?” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “It wasn’t even…"
I stop.Because that’s the lie, isn’t it?It was something. Every time. A flicker. A possibility. A life that started in whispers and ended before it ever got loud enough to be heard. Pretending it wasn’t doesn’t make it hurt less. It just makes it quieter.
“I don’t have time to fall apart,” I whisper. “If I stop, I’ll never start again.”
She squeezes my hand. “Or you’ll finally be able to breathe.”
I laugh hollowly. “Breathing doesn’t make babies.”
“No,” she agrees. “But suffocating won’t either.”
That hits harder than it should. That night, I lay in the spare bed staring at the ceiling fan. It ticks and whirs like it’s mocking me.
Angel’s text sits unopened for a long minute before I let myself look at it.
I love you.
That’s it. No pressure or fixing. No guilt. Just love. My throat tightens painfully. I flip onto my side and clutch the pillow to my chest as it might anchor me. I don’t reply. Not because I don’t love him. Because I don’t know how to explain the thing clawing at my ribs.
The terror that if I stop trying, I’ll have to face the possibility that this might never happen. That might never happen the way I thought it would. I reach for the thermometer on instinct. Same time. Same method. I sit up in the dark and wait for thebeep. Log it. Tiny dip. My heart stutters. I scroll through forums until my eyes burn.
Anyone else feel like their partner just doesn’t get it?
How do you cope when everyone else gets their miracle, but you don’t?
I feel like my body is failing me.
I start typing a reply.
Yes. Every day. It feels like everyone’s moving forward, and I’m stuck in a loop.
I delete it. I don’t want advice. I want certainty, for someone to say, "Do this, and it will work."I want a guarantee. Instead, I get strangers sharing heartbreak and hope in equal measure. It makes me feel less alone. And more terrified.
Morning comes too fast. The house smells like toast and coffee. Normal. Domestic. Safe. I pad into the kitchen in yesterday’s clothes and automatically move toward the counter. Hot water over a teabag. Vitamins lined up. My sister watches quietly.
“You don’t have to do that here,” she says.
“I know.”
