The Ex-Husband of Alice Langley

31

PARIS SWIFT-KELCE
In the sterile, cool air of the lab, I stand hunched over my microscope, trying to make sense of the tiny, blurred shapes swimming before my eyes. Next to me, Lauren flips through her notes, her pen scratching against the paper in a rhythm that mirrors mine. We've spent hours analyzing different samples of deactivated SARS-CoV-2, meticulously jotting down observations, but the strain of staring at the magnified images is starting to wear on me.

"Is your microscope working?" I ask, stepping back and rubbing my eyes in frustration. "Mine's been acting up all day. Everything's blurry."

Without hesitation, Lauren leans over, peering into my scope. "Yep, mine's fine. Let me check yours."

She fiddles with the dials, tweaking the focus and adjusting the lens with the ease of someone who's done this a thousand times. After a few seconds, she stands upright, arms crossed, a smirk forming on her lips. "It's working perfectly fine, Paris. You're just being stupid."

I narrow my eyes at her. "I swear to God, it's blurry! Look—" I lean over and peer into the microscope again, but all I see is a foggy mess of indistinguishable shapes. The frustration mounts, and I feel my pulse quicken.

Lauren shakes her head, amused. "Your notes are a disaster, by the way. The handwriting is all over the place. Paris, how many fingers am I holding up?"

She waves her hand in front of my face, holding up fingers, but the image swims in and out of focus. I squint, desperately trying to make sense of it. "Four?"

Lauren suddenly gasps, her eyes lighting up with excitement. "Edema!"

"Uh, what?" I blink at her, utterly confused.

She nearly bounces with enthusiasm, clearly thrilled with her discovery. "Pregnancy hormones can cause mild corneal edema. It's probably why your vision's blurry and why your handwriting is so terrible! Edema!"

I let out a heavy sigh, my shoulders slumping. "Great. Just what I needed—pregnancy messing with my eyes now. As if it wasn't enough already."

Lauren's laughter fills the lab, but it barely registers with me. I'm too caught up in the frustration bubbling inside, the weight of another pregnancy symptom stacking itself onto an already overwhelming list. I glance back at the microscope as if hoping for a miracle, a clear view, but of course, everything remains stubbornly blurry. "Well, I guess I'll just have to deal with this until the baby's here. Perfect. Just perfect!" My voice drips with sarcasm, though it's more a mask for the helplessness clawing at me.

Lauren's tone softens, sensing my spiraling mood. "Hey, it's okay, Paris. It's just temporary. You'll be back to yourself in no time."

"Easy for you to say." I try to keep my voice steady, but the cracks are showing. "Lauren, we just cured a variant that started a pandemic, but I can barely do anything now! I can't even read my own notes without feeling like I'm going blind! I'm completely useless."

Lauren reaches out, placing a comforting hand on mine. Her touch is gentle, reassuring, but it only makes me feel more fragile. "Maybe physically," she says softly, "but you've still got the brains for this, Paris. I didn't get here by myself. We're a team, remember?"

Her words are kind, but they don't land the way they should. My mind is too clouded by this overwhelming sense of inadequacy. "I— I need a minute." I pull my hand from hers and abruptly stand, my chair screeching against the floor. Without looking back, I march toward the restroom, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Once inside, I slam the door shut behind me, twisting the lock with trembling fingers. The sterile fluorescent lights overhead feel harsh, amplifying the stark white walls as I slide down against the door, letting the cold tile press into my back. It's a relief at first, a grounding sensation as my emotions start to unravel.