I was learning to live in the quiet.
Some days, it felt like peace. Other days, it felt like a silence i hadn't earned.
The baby still hadn't kicked.
But the doctor said it was okay.
Too early.
Normal.
Still… I placed my hand on my stomach more than I used to—hoping, waiting, bargaining with something bigger than me.
"I'm here," I whispered. "You're safe."
And i meant it.
Even if my hands trembled when i held the vitamins.
Even if i still woke up at 3 a.m. with my heart pounding like i was late for something i couldn't name.
Even if i still looked in the mirror and barely recognized the girl staring back.
The girl who used to ride horse and flash perfect smiles.
Now she stayed in pajamas past noon.
She looked pale, softer, quieter.
She looked like someone trying.
I heard the front door open just as i finished my chamomile tea.
Footsteps—soft, careful, familiar.
"Anak?" Yaya Minda peeked in from the hallway.
She had a reusable bag hanging from her arm and a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead. "The market was crowded. I got your mangoes."
I smiled weakly. "Thanks, Yaya."
She walked in, placed the bag on the table, then paused.
Her gaze lingered on me, like she was checking for damage.
"Did you eat?" she asked, voice light but firm.
I nodded. "Oatmeal and the crackers from last night."
She didn't respond right away.
Just walked to the sink, washed the fruit, then started peeling the mangoes like she always did—like the world wasn't breaking and rebuilding inside me.
After a while, she sat beside me.
Slid the plate forward.
I took one slice. Chewed slowly. Swallowed.
She waited.
And then—"Do you want to call your mama?"
I froze.
"No," I said quietly. Too quickly.
Yaya didn't push.
She just nodded, like she already knew.
But i could feel her watching me.
And it made something ache.
I wanted to say i was fine.
That i'd figured things out since yesterday. That the storm had passed.
But it hadn't.
I was still somewhere in the middle of it.
Still hearing her words from the night before—about Mama crying in China, about Sebi being the second chance, about how they tried to make up for me by showing up for him.
I didn't know whether to be angry or grateful.
Or both.
"I'm not ready," I said finally.
Yaya reached over and touched my wrist. "You don't have to be. But i think your mama would want to hear your voice. Even just to know you're okay."
I looked away. "She didn't call when i needed her."
"She didn't know how," Yaya said softly.
And i hated that it made sense.
I hated that understanding her didn't make the hurt disappear.
But it did make the silence feel a little less sharp.
"I'll think about it," I whispered.
That was the most i could give.
She nodded, stood up, and went back to the kitchen.
I finished the mangoes.
Washed my hands.
Lit a candle lavender, again and sat by the window.
The city was humming outside, but my world was still slow.
Still small.
I checked the baby app on my phone.
Week 15. They were the size of a pear.
A pear.
It felt ridiculous and beautiful at the same time.
I wanted to stay here, in this bubble i was building—slowly, quietly, stubbornly.
My world had shrunk, but i was learning to breathe in it.
To rebuild.
To soften.
Because the girl i used to be—the one who needed applause to feel real—was gone.
And in her place was someone else.
Someone softer, maybe.
But stronger, too.
Someone who was carrying a life inside her and trying to figure out how to carry herself alongside it.
I stood up, went to the nursery—well, what was becoming a nursery.
The walls were still bare.
Just cream paint and one shelf with folded baby clothes Yaya had ordered online.
There was a stuffed elephant on the rocking chair.
I picked it up.
Pressed it to my chest.
Then i sat down.
Let the quiet fill me again.
Not all silence is empty.
Sometimes, it's where you begin.