My body ached from the weight of carrying something i didn't understand yet—not just the pregnancy, but everything that came with it.
The silence.
The shame.
The fear that even breathing too loud might break me.
"Come on, anak," Yaya Minda whispered softly, helping me into my beige trench coat.
I nodded, forcing myself to move.
My legs felt like hollow things.
Like i was floating in someone else's body. Like my soul had packed up and left me behind the moment those two pink lines appeared on the test two nights ago.
We stepped into the car.
Paris looked the same—cold, elegant, uncaring.
The city never paused for heartbreak.
It never softened for those quietly unraveling.
Yaya Minda kept glancing at me from the front seat, hands tight on her bag.
She didn't speak much, just held her silence like a prayer.
Maybe she was trying not to cry for me. Maybe she already had.
The drive to the clinic was short.
Too short.
I wasn't ready.
I kept rubbing my thumb over the inside of my palm, like it could somehow wipe away the nerves.
But the dread just kept growing, blooming in my throat like thorns.
Inside the clinic, everything was sterile and white and quiet.
A nurse led us into a private room.
Yaya Minda sat close to me, her hand cold from worry but steady.
When the OB entered, I could barely meet her eyes.
"You're one month pregnant," she said gently, flipping through the charts. "But the embryo's implantation is weak. You need to be very careful, Miss—especially with your emotional state. High stress levels can... it's dangerous."
She didn't say the word.
But i heard it.
Miscarriage.
It floated there, between us.
Unspoken, but heavy.
I swallowed.
My chest tightened so hard it felt like my ribs were caving in.
"I... I understand," I murmured, my voice cracking.
The doctor reached out and placed a hand on mine. "Take it one day at a time. Rest. Avoid stress and please, don't keep this to yourself. Having a support system is essential."
I gave her a smile.
Weak.
Mechanical.
The kind that said thank you, but no one can help me now.
Because i wasn't just carrying a child.
I was carrying the remnants of something that was supposed to be love.
Something that i thought could be safe.
But even Lorenzo left.
Even he chose someone else, he never even tried to fight for me.
-
The next morning, the sun didn't rise.
Not for me, at least.
I pulled the blinds shut, leaving the room in a soft, gray dimness.
I curled up on the edge of my bed, knees tucked into my chest, trying to remember how to exist without crying every five minutes.
Yaya Minda kept coming in and out of the room, pretending to clean, but really just checking if i was still breathing.
"I signed you up for something," she said one afternoon, sitting beside me with a hopeful tone.
I didn't respond.
"It's just... a class. Painting. It might help."
"I don't know how to paint," I whispered.
"That's okay. It's not about skill. It's about expression."
I stared at the ceiling and for once, I didn't say no.
-
The studio was tucked behind a flower shop in the 7th arrondissement.
Smelled like linseed oil and lavender.
The canvases were already set up when we arrived.
I chose the corner, far from the window.
The instructor greeted me warmly, but i barely heard her.
My body moved like i was underwater.
A brush in my hand.
An empty canvas in front of me.
I dipped into the colors, soft blues, muted grays.
But no matter what i painted...
It was always his face.
Lorenzo.
The curve of his jaw.
The warmth of his eyes.
That crooked smile i used to love.
I tried painting a bird.
A tree.
A house.
But somewhere, somehow, the brush betrayed me.
Turned against me.
And there he was again.
I dropped the brush, breathing hard.
"Excuse me," I whispered, and stumbled out of the room, hand pressed to my mouth.
I barely made it to the bathroom before i threw up.
Again.
The same bitter nausea.
The same twisting gut.
It wasn't just morning sickness.
It was him.
Everything in me still remembered him.
Every day was a cycle.
Wake up.
Cry.
Try to eat.
Fail.
Paint.
Cry again.
Throw up.
Paint Lorenzo's face.
Throw up again.
I was stuck in a loop i didn't know how to break.
Yaya Minda tried.
God, she tried.
She made sopas like she used to when i was a kid.
Sat beside me in bed and brushed my hair.
But nothing soothed the ache.
Nothing softened the silence.
One night, she sat at the edge of my bed and asked gently, "Anak... do you regret it?"
I looked at her, tears already welling. "No," I whispered. "I just... I just wish it didn't hurt so much."
She hugged me.
Tighter than usual.
Like she knew this wasn't something that could be fixed.
Only endured.
I watched the world move on through my window.
Couples walked their dogs.
Kids licked gelato.
People laughed.
Shouted. Lived.
And here i was, twenty-three, rich but wrecked, painting a man who would never choose me.
I wasn't going to be someone's shame.
Not Lorenzo's shame either.
He didn't even know.
And he wasn't going to.
Not now.
Not ever.
I had money.
I had a name.
I didn't need him.
I didn't need anyone.
But god, it still hurt.
It hurt every time i looked at the tiny sonogram photo tucked into the back of my drawer.
It hurt every time i woke up and instinctively reached for someone who was never there.
It hurt every time i walked into that painting class and prayed—just this once, let me paint something else.
But every single time...
It was him.
-
Weeks passed.
My belly hadn't even started to show yet, but i could feel the shift.
The way my body protected something.
The way it fought to hold on.
I started drawing softer lines.
Warmer hues.
I painted fields. Skies. Once, I painted a girl holding her child under an almond tree.
But his face still lived in the shadows.
In the outlines.
In the light between brushstrokes.
Maybe part of me was waiting.
Waiting for the pain to fade.
Waiting for the anger to burn out.
But it didn't.
It just... settled.
Became part of me.
Like the baby growing inside me, unseen, quiet, but undeniably real.
-
I stood alone in the kitchen, drinking warm milk the way Yaya Minda told me to.
My hands were shaking, and i didn't know why.
I opened my phone.
Scrolled.
Paused on a photo.
Lorenzo.
He looked happy.
Handsome as always.
Smiling with that girl he was engaged to.
I stared at them, something cracking inside me all over again.
But i didn't cry this time.
I just whispered, "You'll never know."
And turned off the screen.
Because this story was no longer about him.
It was about survival.
It was about me.
And the little life i refused to lose—no matter how broken i was.