I woke in the predawn hush, my stomach twisting with that familiar ache—the one i kept pretending was gone.
My first thought: the baby.
The second: fear.
I sat up too fast.
My heart pounded in my ears as i stumbled toward the bathroom, breath shallow, mind blank.
The cold tile bit into the soles of my feet.
I shut the door behind me, flicked the light on, and reached for my underwear with trembling fingers.
When i pulled them away, I froze.
A red stain bloomed across the fabric.
Stark. Wet. Alive.
My breath caught in my throat.
My knees buckled.
The fabric slipped from my hands and landed on the floor like a dropped secret, shame pooling beside it.
I pressed my palm against the wall, trying to stay upright, but the strength drained from me.
My legs folded beneath me.
"Yaya," I whispered, voice cracking. "Yaya Minda…"
No answer.
My voice hit the tiles like broken glass.
Then—footsteps. Quick. Familiar. Bare.
The door flung open.
Yaya's face: pale. Eyes wide. Hands sure.
She dropped to her knees beside me.
Her arms came around my shoulders just as my body began to shake harder, my face hot with silent, heaving sobs.
"I'm bleeding," I gasped, unable to meet her eyes. "The baby… my baby—"
She caught me before i collapsed again.
Held me like i was something fragile about to split in half.
"Ayoko mawala siya," I cried, choking on the words. "I can't lose my baby. I won't."
I didn't know how to hold on.
Didn't know how to be brave for both of us.
My heart felt like paper in the rain.
Yaya helped me sit back against the wall, kneeling beside me, her hand brushing the hair off my damp forehead.
"Come on, anak," she whispered. "We go to the hospital now."
The drive blurred.
Head on her lap.
Lights streaking past.
I wasn't sure if the sirens i heard were real or just inside me.
The city didn't care—it never did.
When we arrived, the OB was already waiting. She looked tired. Kind.
"There's bleeding," she said gently, her hand wrapping around mine. "We'll do an ultrasound immediately."
They wheeled me into a narrow room.
Bright.
Cold.
Still.
I curled up under the paper sheet, my arms crossed over my chest like a barrier. The machine hummed. The air buzzed.
And then—silence.
The screen flickered in front of me.
I couldn't look.
She pressed the gel onto my lower belly. Warm. Cold. Familiar.
Yaya stood beside me, holding my hand so tight i couldn't tell which of us was shaking more.
The OB moved the wand.
Clicked something. Stared.
"There's a small bleed near the placenta," she said finally.
Her voice was low, like she was speaking into a dream. "It's called a subchorionic hematoma. It happens sometimes in early pregnancy. But you'll need complete rest. Strictly no stress. No lifting. No bending, no painting, no crying…"
My breath hitched.
"No painting?"
She paused.
Her eyes softened. "Nothing that moves your core or strains you. Emotionally or physically. The hematoma could resolve on its own. Or… it could increase. You're at one risk."
I didn't need her to explain.
I heard the unspoken word again.
Miscarriage.
My lips parted.
But no sound came.
Yaya squeezed my hand harder.
"Breathe, anak," she whispered. "Hinga ka lang. Hinga lang."
I couldn't.
-
They sent me home with prescriptions. Vitamins. A pamphlet.
Bed rest orders.
We drove back through streets that no longer felt like Paris.
The lights outside were dimmed.
Or maybe that was just me.
Everything blurred.
Inside me, the baby felt like a glass ornament tucked into the fragile hollow of my chest.
One wrong move and it might shatter.
I stayed on the couch.
Yaya didn't leave my side.
She brought me warm water with honey.
Pressed damp towels to my forehead. Rubbed circles on my back with the palm of her hand.
Brushed my hair in silence.
I cried often.
Quietly. Loudly. In gasps. In dry, empty exhales.
There were nights i whispered things into the dark with no intention of being heard.
"I'm sorry."
"Please hold on."
"Please choose me."
Sometimes the tears on my cheeks felt so sudden, I thought it was blood again. I'd check.
Every time.
Just to be sure.
It was never blood.
Just grief.
-
Days passed in slow dissolves.
No painting.
No walks.
No windows.
I wanted to paint.
God, I wanted to paint.
I needed to.
But i couldn't.
Even my small rebellions—like reaching for a sketchpad—were met with Yaya's quiet plea: "Please, anak. For the baby."
And i listened.
Because what if this was my only chance to keep it?
One night, when the sky was ink black and the streetlamps flickered, I whispered into the quiet:
"I thought you were mine."
No answer.
Just stillness.
And then—
Something moved under my palm.
A flutter.
A ripple.
A tiny pulse of life.
My breath caught.
My hand stilled.
My eyes blurred again with tears—new ones this time.
Awe.
Relief.
Love.
She stepped forward and cradled my face.
"The baby is fighting," she whispered. "Just like you."
I didn't respond.
I didn't have to.
Because for the first time in weeks, I felt something other than fear.
It wasn't peace.
Not yet.
But it was a start.
And maybe, just maybe…
this story wasn't ending here.
Not yet.