Page 28 of Angel
Miss you. Come by when you’re ready.
I stare at the message for a long time. The old version of me would’ve ignored it. Or made an excuse and waited until I felt“better.”This version? I type back.
Soon. I promise.
It feels like a victory, however small and fragile, but real.
The next afternoon, I stand in front of the mirror and study myself. Not critically searching for signs of failure. Just looking. There are faint shadows under my eyes. My shoulders aren’t hunched as tight. I look… tired. But not hollow. That’s something.
One night, lying awake while Angel sleeps, my mind drifts back to the words the therapist said.
You are allowed to grieve what you lost, even if no one else saw it.
The sentence has been echoing in my head for days. I press a hand to my stomach, the way I always do. Out of habit, memory, and maybe a small amount of hope.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the quiet room.
Not to my body, Angel, but to myself. For turning my pain into punishment, believing love had to be earned through suffering, and thinking if I hurt enough, tried enough, and sacrificed enough, I’d deserve something back.
Tears slide silently into my hair. But they don’t wreck me the way they used to. They don’t feel like drowning; it feels like release.
Afew days later, Angel finds me sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.
"You okay?" he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. And this time, it’s true.
He studies me like he’s trying to decide whether to believe it.
“I don’t feel… frantic,” I add.
He nods slowly. “That’s good.”
“I think,” I say carefully, “I was scared that if I stopped trying so hard, it meant I didn’t care anymore.”
“And now?”
“Now I think maybe caring doesn’t have to hurt that much.”
His expression softens. “That sounds healthier than what we were doin’.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Low bar.”
He grins. And for a moment, it feels easy. Not because the pain is gone. But because it isn’t running the show. I don’t know what comes next, if I’ll ever stop wanting a baby, if my body will ever cooperate, or how many setbacks still wait for us down this road.
I don’t know if hope will creep back in quietly one day and scare me all over again. But I do know this: I don’t feel alone anymore. And that changes everything because the hospital felt lonely. The bathroom floor felt lonely. The silent nights staring at glowing charts felt lonely.
This doesn’t. This feels shared. It feels like if I break, someone will be there to help me up. And for the first time since the hospital, that feels like enough to stand on. Not forever. Just for today.
And today?
Today is steady.
And steady is enough.
Chapter Ten
Angel
