The Ex-Husband of Alice Langley

3

TAYLOR SWIFT
As I walk past the bathroom in the quiet of the night, the unmistakable sound of retching catches my attention, followed by soft, heart-wrenching sobs. I freeze in place, my heart tightening. It's Alice. Again. She's been doing this for weeks now, and each time, it feels like a punch to the gut—knowing she's suffering and I don't have the right words or actions to make it better.

The soft glow of light seeps out from under the bathroom door, a stark contrast to the darkness of the hallway. I stand there, staring at it, my hand unconsciously hovering near the doorknob. I can hear her choking on her sobs between bouts of vomiting, the raw, helpless sound of someone who's on the edge of breaking. My stomach churns in response. Every part of me wants to rush in and hold her, to comfort her in some way, but I'm paralyzed by uncertainty.

I don't know how to help her.

I stand there for a moment, hand hovering just above the doorknob. My heart aches for her, but I'm frozen, unsure of what to do. Every night, it's the same—Alice in there alone, her sobs muffled by the walls, and me outside, feeling powerless.

I take a deep breath, gathering the courage to knock gently. "Alice?" I call softly through the door. There's a pause in the sounds, but I know she hears me.

"I'm fine," she croaks, but her voice betrays her. She's not fine.

I lean my head against the door, speaking a little louder this time. "You don't have to go through this alone, you know. Let me help you."

There's a moment of silence before I hear her voice again, quieter this time. "I don't even know how you can help."

"Maybe I can't fix it, but at least you won't be by yourself," I offer, hesitating for a moment. "Can I come in?"

Another beat of silence, then the sound of the lock turning. I push the door open gently and step inside. Alice is hunched over the sink, pale and trembling. Her eyes are red, and tears are streaking down her face.

Without a word, I grab a towel and wet it with cool water, handing it to her. She presses it to her face, and I see the exhaustion in her eyes.

"Thanks," she whispers.

She rests her trembling hand on her stomach, where the small but unmistakable bump is already forming. "The babies are killing me," she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper. The raw exhaustion in her words hangs heavy in the air, and I can see the toll this is taking on her—far beyond just the physical strain.

I take a hesitant step closer, unsure if I should push further. "It seems like it's more than just that, hon," I say softly, trying to offer some comfort without making her feel cornered.

"I'm fine," Alice insists, her voice shaky but determined. Her eyes flicker toward the ultrasound photos still clutched in her hand, as if they hold some answer she hasn't yet figured out.

"You need to tell him," I sigh, leaning back against the wall, arms crossed. The weight of her situation presses between us, heavy and unspoken.

"I don't know how," she admits, her voice smaller this time, almost fragile. She keeps her gaze down, avoiding my eyes, and I can tell she's been rehearsing this conversation in her head but can't find the courage to follow through.

I let out a breath and, in an attempt to lighten the tension, say with a sarcastic chuckle, "Do you need me to go with you?"

Her response is immediate. "Yeah, that would help a lot actually."

I freeze, blinking in surprise. There's no sarcasm in her tone, no hint of a joke. She's completely serious, her expression raw and vulnerable. The tension that had been hanging in the air snaps as I realize how much she's struggling.