The appointment was not my idea.
That distinction mattered to me.
Vivienne called early in the morning, her voice unusually calm, almost rehearsed. She said she had made arrangements, that it would only take an hour, that it would put everyone's mind at ease. Everyone-as if my body belonged to a committee now.
"I'll go with you," she said, before I could object. "You shouldn't be alone."
I stared at my phone long after the call ended. Outside, the sky was overcast, the kind of gray that pressed down on the world, flattening color and sound. My stomach ached-not sharply, but persistently, like a warning I had learned to ignore.
In the waiting room, the air smelled of disinfectant and something sweet underneath it, cloying. She sat beside me, knees crossed, hands folded neatly in her lap. Every few minutes, she glanced at me, then away again, as if checking whether I was still there.
I filled out the forms carefully. Age. Weight. Last menstrual cycle. I hesitated at that one, pen hovering, then wrote the date anyway. It looked wrong on paper. Too small. Too inadequate to explain everything that had happened since.
When they called my name, she stood too.
"They only need one of us," I said.
She smiled, tight and patient. "I know."
The doctor was kind. That was the worst part.
She spoke gently, asked open-ended questions, nodded at all the right moments. She listened as I explained the dreams, the symptoms, the certainty that had settled into my bones. I chose my words carefully, making sure I sounded rational, coherent, credible.
She pressed her fingers into my abdomen, methodical and warm. I watched her face for signs-confirmation, concern, recognition-but her expression remained unreadable.
"I'd like to run some tests," she said. "Just routine."
Routine. Another soft word.
The room went quiet as the machine hummed to life. I lay back, the paper beneath me crinkling, and stared at the ceiling tiles. I tried not to think of the dreams, of water and blood and whispered assurances.
The screen was turned away from me.
I felt the absence immediately.
She moved the instrument slowly, deliberately, pausing now and then as if searching for something elusive. My heart hammered. I waited for the sound-for the rhythm I had been sure I felt, imagined, known.
Nothing came.
She cleaned the gel from my skin and sat back, folding her hands the same way Vivienne had in the waiting room.
"There's no pregnancy," she said.
The words were precise. Final.
I laughed before I could stop myself. It came out wrong-too loud, too sharp.
"That's not possible," I said. "You must be mistaken."
She didn't flinch. "I'm not."
Vivienne leaned forward. "I told you," she said softly.
Something inside me cracked.
"You don't feel what I feel," I said. My voice trembled now, the edges fraying. "You don't wake up like this. You don't carry it."
The doctor nodded slowly. "Sometimes the body responds to belief," she said. "The symptoms you're experiencing are very real."
"But the cause-" Vivienne began.
The doctor raised a hand. "Let me finish."
She turned back to me. "What you're describing can happen when the mind and body are under significant stress. Trauma, loss-"
"I'm not imagining this," I said.
"I know," she replied. "But belief doesn't always equal truth."
That sentence lodged in my chest like a blade.
They talked then-about next steps, referrals, therapy. Words blurred together, heavy and indistinct. I watched Vivienne nodding along, relief softening her features, as if something dangerous had finally been contained.
When we left, she reached for my hand.
"Elara dear...I'm so glad you came," she said.
I pulled away.
Outside, the sky had darkened further, clouds low and swollen with rain. The world felt hostile now, sharpened. I pressed my palm to my stomach again, desperate for reassurance.
That night, the dream shattered completely.
There was no ritual. No warmth.
I stood alone in a barren room, my stomach flat and aching, my arms empty. The man, Julian ,watched from a distance, his face turned away.
"They took it from you," he said.
When I woke, my bed was soaked-not with sweat, but with tears I didn't remember crying.
For the first time since the dreams began, I was afraid.
Not that I was wrong.
But that the truth no longer mattered.