Page 265 of Mario

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I type:

Yes. I think I ate something that disagreed with me.

That sounds ridiculous. Weak. Too casual.

I delete it.

I type nothing.

The screen dims again.

Coward.

I am a coward.

I slept in his bed. I let him inside me. I let him feed me breakfast in his garden. I let myself feel seen by him, wanted by him, claimed by him in a way that should have terrified me long before now.

And now I cannot answer a text.

Because what if answering opens the door?

What if he calls?

What if he hears my voice and knows?

What if he comes here?

My gaze snaps toward the door.

He would not.

Would he?

I do not know.

That is the problem.

I do not know what he does when he is worried.

I do not know what he does when he feels ignored.

I do not know what he does when a woman carries something of his and does not tell him.

My hand moves to my stomach again.

There is nothing to feel.

It is too early. Barely anything.

Still, my palm stays there.

And something in me breaks. A small, silent fracture deep inside me.

Because for one second, under all the fear and panic and horror and uncertainty, there is something else.

Something soft and so dangerous, I almost shove it away before it can finish forming.

A baby.

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