Bandom One-shots book 3

November Rain ! Part Twelve !

~You'll need tissues for this one. TW: miscarriage~

1990 was supposed to be the year of change. We'd been through so much already—touring, recording, fighting, loving, and everything in between. But it wasn't enough for me and Izzy. Not anymore. We wanted more. I wanted more. And what I wanted, what we both wanted, was a family.

It wasn't a decision we made lightly, but we talked about it for a while, quietly, in the middle of all the chaos. Both of us were getting older, our lives changing in ways we couldn't control, but still, there was this part of me that thought maybe—maybe—we could make something work, something solid, something of our own. We were both so used to the chaos of the world around us, the constant noise, the expectations, the loneliness that came with living in the eye of a storm. Maybe this would be different. Maybe this could be ours.

We found a surrogate, a woman willing to help us bring a child into the world, and for the first time in a long time, I felt hope. For the first time, something felt like it had potential to be real.

Izzy was already talking about names, even though it was too early. He'd talk about the future like it was some kind of guarantee—like we already had a baby on the way. He was excited, so damn excited, and it was contagious. I wasn't exactly as open about it, but I couldn't help but feel a shift in me. I wanted this. I wanted to build something more than just the wreckage of the band and our lives. I wanted us to be more than just Axl and Izzy.

But life, as always, had other plans.

It's hard to explain how something so devastating can feel like a punch in the gut, something that leaves you breathless and empty. We were in the middle of a tour when we got the call. The surrogate had miscarried. It wasn't anyone's fault—just one of those terrible, uncontrollable things that happens. But that didn't make it hurt any less.

Izzy and I both took the news differently, as usual. He was quiet at first, looking like he couldn't find the right words. And I... well, I was angry. Angry at the world, angry at myself. I felt like I was failing him, failing us. My mind raced with what-ifs. I couldn't even look at him at first, couldn't even begin to talk about it.

I just walked away.

I went straight to the studio room in our house, locked the door behind me, and sat in the silence.

I don't know what I was expecting to happen. But I sure as hell didn't expect this overwhelming feeling of emptiness. That empty space was more than just the loss of the baby. It was everything. It was everything I was too afraid to face—the fear that we might not ever be able to make it work, that maybe we weren't cut out for this, that maybe I wasn't cut out to be the person Izzy needed. I'd been running from those feelings for so long, but there was no running now. They hit me all at once.

I grabbed a notebook and a pen, but my hands were shaking. I didn't know how to write about something so huge, something so painful, something that seemed so unfair. The loss of a child. It seemed impossible to put into words.

But the pain inside me had to come out somehow.

I started scribbling, not thinking much about the words, just letting them spill onto the page:

"When I look into your eyes,

I can see a love restrained,

But darlin' when I hold you,

Don't you know I feel the same..."

The words felt like they were coming from somewhere deep, like I didn't have control over them. It wasn't just about the miscarriage anymore—it was about everything I couldn't say to Izzy, everything I was afraid to feel. The emptiness. The confusion. The need for something to hold on to. But it wasn't just about me, not just about us. It was the grief, the feeling of losing something before it had a chance to begin.