Chapter 34 - Donovan
Donovan
It’s been three days. She hasn’t taken the test. And I haven’t asked. Not once.
Instead, I make her breakfast. I rub her shoulders when she curls up too tightly on the couch. I kiss her belly when she’s asleep and whisper things I’m too afraid to say out loud. But I don’t ask.
Because if she is, I want her to tell me when she’s ready. And if she’s not—God, I don’t know what to do with that.
The silence in this apartment is thick. We eat in silence. Dress in silence. Three days of walking on glass. And I’m scared for my wife. For the weight she’s carrying. For how quiet she’s become.
She moves through her day like nothing’s wrong. Paints. Texts her friends. Smiles sometimes. But when she’s home? We barely speak.
I’m standing at the kitchen counter, the ache sitting heavy in my chest, when Theo strolls out of Ansel’s room, rubbing the sleep from his face.
“You good, D?” he asks, grabbing a bottle of water.
“Yeah, man. I’m good,” I lie, already turning away.
When the fuck did Theo move out here? I don’t even know anymore.
I head into the bedroom and find her perched in front of her easel—barefoot in one of my old T-shirts, her hair twisted up. She's painting lilies. A whole field of them.
From a distance, it’s soft—serene. White petals stretched toward a low sky. But as I move closer, the edges sharpen. The stems curve like spines. The lilies tilt like mourners at a funeral. The clouds above are heavy—storm-stained and unforgiving.
It’s haunting. Heartbreaking. Her.
She doesn’t look up when I walk in. She just drags her brush in slow, trembling strokes, layering shadow into bloom. I press a kiss to her temple. She still doesn’t move.
I sit on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on my knees, and breathe in deep.
“Mi Bella.” My voice comes out low. Careful. “I think it’s time to take the test.”
She stills. Her brush stops mid-stroke. Then she sets it down and turns toward me, eyes glassy, mouth trembling.
“Donovan, I can’t. I…” Her breath catches. She presses her hands over her face. “I don’t want to ruin anything. I don’t want to ruin us.”
My heart cracks at the sound of her crying.
I move to her without hesitation, dragging my knees along the floor until I’m in front of her.
“Baby girl,” I whisper, cupping her hands, peeling them gently from her face. “You could never ruin us. Never. You are my life. My love. Stella—you’re my fucking wife.”
I lift her hand and press a kiss to her ring, just above the gold.
“Through thick and thin, for better and worse, remember?”
She leans forward and wraps her arms around me. I hold her like she might disappear.
But then—her voice breaks again, soft and devastating.
“Donovan… I don’t…” She swallows. “I don’t want kids.”
I still. She's still holding on. But I feel the shift. The tilt.
“Not like… not now,” she continues. “Not ‘someday.’ I mean—I don’t want them. At all.”
The world stops spinning.
There’s no anger. No explosion. Just a crack inside me—a slow, seismic shift.
I nod. Once.
Because I need her to feel safe. Because she’s trembling, and I love her more than I love anything. But inside? I’m coming undone.
Because I’ve always wanted this. A little life with her eyes. Her stubborn streak. Her laugh. A piece of her I could hold in my arms. I wanted to watch her become a mother. To be beside her through it all.
I wanted that.
And she doesn’t.
She doesn’t want it with me. She doesn’t want it at all. I hold her tighter. Bury my face in her neck. I tell myself this is enough, that she is enough.
I tilt her chin gently, and I kiss her. Soft. Tender. The kind of kiss that says, I’m still here.
Then I whisper, “All I’ve ever needed is you.”
And I mean it. But the ache doesn’t go away. It settles—quiet and bitter—in the back of my mind. Waiting.
Stella grabs my hand and silently leads me into the bathroom. She pulls out both boxes of tests—rips them open with shaking hands—and, without a word, disappears behind the door.
The flush sounds. Then the water is running. Then silence. She reappears, pale and quiet, and sets both tests on the counter. Digital. No room for guessing. We slide down the wall together, settling on the cold tile floor.
She leans into me, curling into my lap. I hold her close, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other stroking through her hair like I can calm the storm inside her.
Minutes pass, slow and cruel. And still—I don’t say a word. Because if I speak, I might break this moment. Or worse… break her.
I press my lips to her temple. She's it. My whole world. If I lost her—really lost her—I don’t think I’d know how to go on.
The timer goes off.
We both rise slowly. She grabs one test. I grab the other.
Big, clear words blink across both screens:
Not Pregnant. Not Pregnant.
I stare. And my heart sinks—quietly, like it’s trying not to make a scene.
I glance at Stella.
There’s no relief in her eyes. No smile. Just this raw, quiet fear.
Like she’s realizing what I’m realizing.
This isn’t a reset. It's not a moment to breathe easy.
It’s a crack in the foundation.
A silent confirmation of the distance that’s growing between us. Not because she doesn’t love me. But because we want different things. Things that can’t be compromised. And I don’t know if love alone can hold us together.
God, I hope it can.
But I can’t help wondering—is this the moment the threads begin to unravel?