The Quiet War
The morning sun pressed against the curtains, but I couldn't bring myself to open them.
My stomach had already turned twice before I even made it out of bed, and by the time I staggered to the bathroom, I was on my knees again, the cold porcelain of the tub biting into my skin as I retched until I thought there was nothing left inside me.
When it finally passed, I slumped against the cool tile floor, pressing a damp washcloth to my forehead.
Nine weeks in, and the weight of it was catching up with me in a way I hadn't anticipated.
It wasn't just the nausea; it was the bone-deep tiredness that made my limbs feel like they were made of lead.
It was the constant, dull ache in my body that didn't ease even after hours of restless sleep.
I crawled back under the covers, the house feeling cavernous and too quiet without Mom bustling around.
She'd left early for her double shift at the diner, pressing a lingering, worried kiss to my temple before heading out.
She'd whispered for me to rest, her eyes lingering on the pale wash of my skin.
Rest. That was all I seemed to do lately. Rest and think.
The ultrasound picture sat on my nightstand, the grainy outline of that tiny flicker staring back at me like a silent reminder I couldn't escape. My baby. My responsibility. My future—towering and terrifying—whether I felt ready or not.
And then there was Nick.
Last night's conversation replayed over and over in my head like a scratched record, the words sharp and stinging in my chest. It shouldn't have happened.
We stop here. I'd agreed. I'd looked him in those stormy gray eyes and said it was for the best, because it was the logical, safe, "Collins" thing to say.
But lying here, weak and worn down by the sheer physicality of being pregnant, I couldn't stop remembering the way his hand had felt against mine. It had been so steady.
His voice had softened into something almost tender when he promised I wasn't alone. How was I supposed to just turn that off? How was I supposed to look at him and see only "Anthony's friend" when I had felt the heartbeat of his restraint against my own lips?
I pressed my face into the pillow, trying to block out the light and the thoughts, but the tears came anyway. They weren't just about Nick, or even about Brandon.
They were born of pure exhaustion and the crushing fear that I wasn't strong enough for any of this. I was twenty-five years old and hiding in my childhood bedroom while a life grew inside me, and for the first time, the "city girl" I'd pretended to be felt like a total stranger.
The hours slipped by in fits of restless sleep, broken by more waves of nausea, until the daylight began to fade into a bruised purple. My body felt heavy, my mind heavier, and still I stayed curled beneath the covers in the dim room.
I told myself tomorrow would be better. I promised the shadows on the wall that tomorrow I'd get up, I'd shower, I'd eat something more than saltine crackers, and I'd put that mask back on. I'd be the Aubrey everyone expected.
But today? Today I didn't have a single ounce of strength left to pretend.