It had been a quiet morning when everything fell apart.
You were folding baby clothes on the couch, running your hands over the soft fabric with a kind of reverence, imagining the tiny body that would soon fill them. Nicholas had insisted on buying them even though you weren't that far along yet. "I just can't help it," he'd said, his eyes lighting up with a joy you'd never seen before. "Our baby's going to be here before we know it."
Now, that joy felt like a cruel reminder.
It started with a dull ache, something so small you didn't think much of it at first. But then it intensified, spreading like fire through your abdomen. You doubled over, the clothes slipping from your hands, your breath coming in shallow gasps.
"Nick," you managed to call out, panic lacing your voice.
He was by your side in seconds, his eyes wide with alarm. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
"I don't know," you whispered, clutching your stomach as a fresh wave of pain tore through you. And then you felt it—the warm, wet sensation that made your heart plummet.
Nicholas saw the blood before you could say anything. His face went pale, his voice shaky as he said, "We need to get to the hospital. Now."
The drive was a blur. You clung to his hand as he sped through the streets, his jaw tight, his eyes flicking between the road and you. "It's going to be okay," he kept saying, as if repeating it would make it true. "We're going to be okay."
But deep down, you both knew the truth.
When you arrived at the hospital, the nurses moved quickly, ushering you into a room and hooking you up to monitors. Nicholas stayed by your side, his hands trembling as he stroked your hair, whispering reassurances you weren't sure he believed.
The doctor came in, his expression solemn. He said words you didn't want to hear, words that made your chest constrict and your vision blur.
"I'm so sorry," he said. "There's no heartbeat."
The room spun. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stare at the doctor, hoping—praying—that you'd misheard him.
"No," you whispered, shaking your head. "No, that's not possible. I was just feeling them move yesterday. They were fine. They were fine."
"I'm so sorry," the doctor repeated, his voice heavy with sympathy.
Your body betrayed you then, a guttural sob tearing from your throat as the weight of his words settled over you. Nicholas caught you as you crumpled, pulling you into his arms as you shook with grief.
"This can't be happening," you cried, your fists clutching his shirt. "This can't be real."
He held you tighter, his own tears falling silently onto your hair. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, baby."
The hours that followed were a haze of pain and disbelief. You heard the doctors and nurses talking, felt the soft pinch of needles and the pressure of their hands, but it all felt distant, like it was happening to someone else.
Nicholas never left your side. He held your hand through every step, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a soothing rhythm. But even his touch, as familiar and comforting as it was, couldn't reach the part of you that felt hollow now.
When you were finally discharged, the ride home was deafeningly silent. The air felt heavy, the world outside moving on as if nothing had changed.
But for you, everything had.
At home, the baby clothes were still scattered on the couch where you'd left them. The sight of them was a dagger to your chest, and you turned away, tears streaming down your face.
"I'll take care of it," Nicholas said softly, his voice thick with emotion. He gathered the clothes into his arms, his shoulders shaking as he carried them into the nursery—the room you'd painted together, the room that now felt like a cruel joke.
You sank onto the edge of the bed, your hands resting on your still-swollen belly. The ache was unbearable, both physical and emotional, a reminder of what you'd lost.
Nicholas came back a few minutes later, his eyes red and swollen. He sat beside you, pulling you into his arms. "I don't know what to say," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how to fix this."
"There's nothing to fix," you said, your voice hollow. "They're gone. Our baby is gone."
The words felt foreign in your mouth, like they belonged to someone else.
Nicholas pressed his forehead to yours, his tears mingling with your own. "I'm so sorry," he said again, his voice cracking. "I wanted this so much—for us, for them. I don't know how to do this without them."
"We don't have a choice," you said, the bitterness in your tone surprising even you. "We have to figure out how to move forward, even if it feels impossible."
He nodded, though his eyes were distant, filled with a grief that mirrored your own. "We'll get through this," he said, his voice trembling. "We have to."
But as the days turned into weeks, the weight of your loss didn't lessen. The nursery door stayed closed, the baby clothes packed away in a box in the corner of the closet. The silence in the house was deafening, broken only by the sound of your quiet sobs at night, when you thought Nicholas was asleep.
He heard you, of course. He always did. And each time, he would wrap his arms around you, holding you as tightly as he could, as if he could somehow shield you from the pain.
"I miss them," you whispered one night, your voice barely audible.
"Me too," he said, his breath warm against your hair. "Every second of every day."
The two of you held each other in the darkness, your grief a shared burden that neither of you knew how to carry.
But somehow, you did. Together.
Because even in the face of unimaginable loss, you still had each other.
And that was enough to keep going.
For now.
