13. Elena
Elena
The second trimester begins, and with it comes the faintest relief.
The nausea that once clung to me like a shadow begins to ebb, like a tide retreating slowly, unwilling to leave me entirely.
My stomach feels steadier now, the waves of sickness that once made me a prisoner to my bed finally beginning to subside.
I can eat again without feeling like I’m losing a battle against my own body, and though the exhaustion hasn’t completely vanished, it’s less of a burden.
There’s a strange sort of quiet pride in feeling my body return to some semblance of normalcy, even as I can feel the life inside me grow heavier. Outside, I’m heavier, too. I don’t think I can disguise my bump anymore. Not that anyone sees me, except at the clinic.
But the relief is fleeting. Because as my physical state improves, the emotional weight only grows with it.
The apartment is quiet, too. I think I’ve grown used to it.
The silence. The stillness. It doesn’t bother me the way it used to, perhaps because I’ve come to expect it.
The days pass in a rhythm I can’t change.
Morning routine, lunch, a brief nap, then dinner.
It’s predictable, almost comforting in its monotony.
But there’s no one to share it with, and that stings.
Grace has left the program after her delivery, and I’m alone now.
The apartment feels emptier without her.
Her absence hits me in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
I knew she was going to leave eventually, but I didn’t think it would hurt this much.
No more late-night chats about what we’re going through.
No more shared looks at our growing bellies.
No more small, familiar sounds of life that come with having someone else around.
It was never perfect, the connection we shared.
There was always the program forcing distance between us.
Rules, limitations, the unsaid things that we both understood.
But she was the one person here who understood my experience, who knew what it felt like to be trapped in this world, in this body.
And she never made me feel like I was completely alone.
And now, she’s gone.
I want to be happy for her—I do. She made it through the program.
She gave birth. She gets to go back to her life, get out of this prison.
I envy her that. But at the same time, I can’t ignore the emptiness she’s left behind.
Her laughter, her voice, the way she always seemed to know when I needed a distraction or when I was too quiet.
She was the first and only real friend I’ve had since I got here.
The program feels all the more like a holding cell now.
I don’t have much outside of the program now.
My one friend is gone. My old life in Dublin feels distant, like a memory I can no longer quite reach.
The money they give me for necessities is enough for the essentials, but there’s nothing left over for the things I used to enjoy.
No splurging on a new book, no outing to a café.
Just bills, food, and the occasional supply of pregnancy vitamins, all delivered and arranged per Cormac’s instructions.
Even though he’s barely around now, I can still feel his presence in the smallest details of my life.
Like the meals—always on time, always perfectly measured, always devoid of any choice on my part.
The appointment reminders, even though Dr. Walsh now handles everything.
It’s as though Cormac is still here, still pulling the strings, even when he’s nowhere to be found.
His absence doesn’t feel freeing, but brings something else entirely: the eerie sense of being watched.
I let the feeling wash over me for a moment, but it doesn’t change anything.
It doesn’t change the fact that the apartment still feels like a box I’m stuck inside, no matter how comfortable it is or how familiar the routine has become.
I’m just waiting. Waiting for what, exactly?
For my life to begin again? For some sense of agency, some shred of control?
But there’s nothing. The program has its grip on me, whether I like it or not.
As I step out of the shower, steam still clinging to my skin, I pause in front of the mirror without really meaning to.
It isn’t a deliberate choice so much as a quiet pull, the kind that happens before I can resist it.
My attention settles on my reflection and then narrows, inevitably, to the change I can no longer ignore.
My stomach.
It’s no longer something I can explain away with posture or careful clothing.
No longer something that belongs only to me in the privacy of a second glance.
The curve is there now, unmistakable, rounding forward with a certainty that feels both gradual and sudden at the same time.
I shift slightly, angling my body, studying it as though I might understand something new if I look at it long enough.
I don’t. But I keep looking, anyway. Water traces slow paths down my skin, gathering at the slope of my stomach before slipping lower.
Without really deciding to, I lift my hand and rest it there.
The contact is gentle, almost cautious, as if I’m not entirely sure how much pressure I’m allowed to use.
Warm. Firm. Real in a way that still catches me off guard, even after weeks of watching it grow.
It belongs to me—and it doesn’t. The thought settles quietly rather than sharply, familiar enough now that it no longer startles, only lingers.
I press my palm a little more firmly against the curve, testing the space, feeling for something I can’t quite name. There’s no movement yet, nothing that could be mistaken for a response. But there is a presence, constant and impossible to ignore.
A reminder.
Of the child.
Of the contract.
Of him .
My breath shifts slightly at that, the association arriving uninvited but not unexpected.
This is what he sees. Not the version of me that existed before all of this.
Not the girl who followed Liam to Dublin with more optimism than sense and stayed when she should have left, but this version instead.
Contained, monitored, carrying something that ties me directly into a system I can’t step outside of anymore.
Carrying something that belongs to him.
That last thought lingers longer than it should, and I feel it in the way my fingers press more deliberately against my skin before I catch myself and let my hand fall away.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that.
Not when he’s barely here anymore. Not when the distance he’s created should feel like a release instead of…
I stop that thought before it finishes, reaching instead for the towel and wrapping it around myself with more force than necessary, as though the act itself might pull me back into something more familiar, something that feels like mine.
It doesn’t quite work.
The apartment is still quiet when I step out of the bathroom, the kind of quiet that presses in around the edges of everything until it becomes something I’m aware of rather than something I can ignore.
I move through it, crossing the floor slowly, letting routine and muscle memory take over where thought threatens to linger too long.
There’s comfort in that, in not having to decide anything for myself.
Predictable. Managed. Contained.
A sharp knock at the door cuts cleanly through the silence, abrupt enough that I freeze before I fully register it.
For a moment, I don’t move. No one comes here unannounced.
Not without notice, not without reason, not without it already being entered somewhere into the system that governs everything else.
The second knock comes a little firmer, and I feel my pulse pick up in response. A small, instinctive reaction.
“Niamh?” I call, my voice quieter than I intend.
There’s no answer.
I tighten the towel slightly around myself before moving toward the door, slower than necessary. When I open it, a courier is already shifting his weight in the hallway, glancing down at a handheld device before looking up at me.
“Miss Rowe?”
“Yes?”
“Delivery.”
That alone is enough to make something in my chest tighten, subtle but immediate. How could I have forgotten that everything here is arranged, scheduled, approved? There are no surprises.
I sign where he indicates, my attention already shifting to the envelope he passes into my hands before he turns and walks away without waiting for anything more. The door closes, and the quiet returns just as quickly as it left. But it feels different now. Less empty. More expectant.
I look down at what I’m holding. The envelope is heavier than I expect, cream paper instead of the standard clinic-issued packaging. My name is written neatly across the front in a hand I don’t immediately recognize. There’s no logo, no stamp from the program. Nothing that ties it back to him.
Which means it didn’t come through him. The realization settles slowly, but once it does, something shifts inside me.
I turn it over once in my hands before sliding a finger beneath the seal, opening it carefully, as though whatever is inside might dissolve if I move too quickly.
A single folded letter. I unfold it, my eyes moving automatically to the first line. And just like that, the stillness I’ve grown so used to fractures.
Dear Ms. Rowe,
I hope this letter finds you well. I am aware of your current participation in Dr. Brennan’s program and the progress you have made. I also understand that such programs, while effective, can sometimes feel restrictive, limiting the involvement of those who are experiencing the process firsthand.