unplanned destinies

11 | shes stable

The harsh fluorescent lights above the operating table felt too bright, piercing through my eyelids even when I tried to shut them tight. My body was numb, not from fear, but from the anesthesia that had taken hold, disconnecting me from the pain, but not from the reality of what was happening. I could still hear the faint clinking of metal instruments, the sterile voices of the doctors as they prepared for the procedure.

I couldn't move, couldn't feel anything below my chest. But my heart was racing, beating so fast it felt like it might burst out of my ribs. I didn't want to be here. Not like this. Not under these circumstances.

The idea of surgery scared me, but not as much as what came after. There was a baby inside of me—his baby. The thought twisted in my gut like a knife, but there was no turning back now. They were going to take her out. A baby I didn't even know existed until a few hours ago. I had no time to process, no time to prepare. And now, I didn't know if she would even survive.

I stared at the ceiling, my mind trying to drift away from the sterile room, but every time I did, the reality snapped back. The machines beeped. The voices around me spoke in medical terms I didn't understand. And every few seconds, I could hear the shallow hum of the ventilator they had prepared, just in case.

I thought of Jordan. What would she think when she saw the baby? Did she even want this? Could I even want this?

A soft tugging sensation brought me back to the present. They were starting. I couldn't feel pain, but the pressure was unmistakable, and it made my breath catch. I wished Jordan was here, wished she was holding my hand. But I knew she couldn't be. The risk was too high, and part of me was glad she wasn't seeing this. I didn't want her to see me like this, scared, vulnerable, exposed.

Minutes felt like hours as I lay there, waiting for something, anything to tell me it was over. The silence felt deafening. What if she doesn't make it? What if I don't make it? A new wave of panic rose, my body trembling despite the anesthesia's numbing effects. I tried to focus on my breathing, but it only made me more aware of how fast my heart was racing. I was alone, and everything felt out of control.

Then, the doctor's voice broke through the quiet.

"She's out."

I didn't hear a cry. The silence was suffocating. Was she alive? Why wasn't she crying?

Seconds later, there was a faint, fragile sound, a small, weak cry. My chest loosened, a breath I hadn't realized I was holding escaping. She was alive. She was so small and fragile, but she was alive. The fear hadn't left me, but for a brief moment, relief washed over me.

They held her up just long enough for me to see her tiny form, her skin so pink and wrinkled, and then she was whisked away by a nurse. She was so small... too small.

I blinked back the tears that burned at the edges of my eyes. This wasn't how I imagined having a child. Hell, I never imagined it at all. But now, everything had changed. She was here, and no matter how complicated it all felt, she was mine.

As the doctors finished up, my body started to feel the strain, the exhaustion weighing down on me like an anchor. But it wasn't just physical. My mind was spinning, trying to catch up with everything that had just happened. Kye's face flashed before me, his anger, the way he looked at me that night, the violence. And now, the baby was a part of that, his, but also mine. How could I reconcile that?

After what felt like forever, they moved me to recovery. The nurse explained something about monitoring my vitals, about keeping the baby in the NICU for observation. But her words were a blur. I was too tired, too drained. My body ached even though I still couldn't feel much of it. I closed my eyes, just for a moment, and let the darkness swallow me.