Fate || BENNIFER

Two Lines

Two lines, bold and undeniable. A second test, a brutal confirmation, a stark contrast to the pale, almost hesitant lines of the first test, a test I had taken in a desperate, almost masochistic hope that I was wrong. Positive. Again. The word echoed in my mind.

Ben was gone, along with our planned future, our dream of a wedding, a family... it all felt so raw, so recent. This pregnancy felt less like a miracle and more like a cruel joke. I wanted desperately to blink that reality away, to wake from that nightmare and find myself back in yet another normal morning, where I could continue to mourn the end of my relationship and engagement with Ben. But not this. This felt less like sadness and more like... paralysis.

I had envisioned so many scenarios in the weeks since Ben's departure, imagined countless conversations, imagined different versions of my future. I had pictured myself finding solace in my kids, finding a way to rebuild my life, my career, my sense of self. I had imagined a future free from the shadow of the relationship that had imploded. None of those scenarios included this. None of them tied me even more to Ben.

The piece of plastic felt heavy in my hand, almost unbearably so, a tangible representation of the life that was unexpectedly, impossibly, growing within me.

I sat there for a long time, while the world outside continued, indifferent to my internal turmoil. The weight of it all, the sheer immensity of the decision looming before me, threatened to crush me completely.

Time had become blurry. Had it been a day? A week? A month? My last concrete memory was the image of Emme and Max clinging to their grandmother's hands. Grace was spending the week with Ben. I remembered the call. No explanation, no timeframe. But my mom accepted without asking any questions.

The memories, sharp and unforgiving, clawed their way into my consciousness. The weeks before Ben left. The frantic, desperate sex. An attempt to fill the gaping chasm that had opened between us, a substitute for conversation, for connection, for love. It hadn't been lovemaking; it had been a brutal, desperate act of self-destruction, a desperate attempt to erase the cold, hollow space growing between us. Each encounter had left me emptier than the last. I could still feel the texture of his skin, the rough scrape of his beard against my cheek, the weight of his body pressing down, an overwhelming force that somehow managed to feel strangely empty. There was no tenderness, no warm, just the primal urgency of two people desperate to avoid the uncomfortable truth that hung between them, a truth we both actively chose to ignore.

The cold, clinical absence of emotion haunted me now. It wasn't passion; it was a frantic grasping at shadows, a desperate search for solace in the most basic of physical interactions. The lack of protection, the blatant disregard for the consequences, seemed almost inevitable in retrospect. We hadn't just neglected to use protection; we had actively chosen not to. It was a final act of reckless abandon, mirroring the reckless way we had thrown our relationship away. And now, here I was, facing the consequences alone.

I lay cocooned beneath the mountain of crumpled sheets, my face buried in the pillow. I didn't even flinch when Leah entered. She paused in the doorway. The silence in the room was thick, and my stillness wasn't peaceful.

"I've been calling all morning." She said, but her words hung in the air, unanswered. "I was really worried."

I shifted slightly, pulling the sheets tighter around me. The only response was the muffled rustle of fabric. Leah understood. The chilling absence of emotion, the utter stillness, spoke volumes. It wasn't denial; it was something far deeper, a well of sorrow so vast it had drowned all other feeling.

"Shit." Leah breathed.

She walked to the bed and sat on the edge, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight.

"It was positive, wasn't it?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Leah reached out, hesitantly touching my arm, a gesture of comfort that felt clumsy and inadequate.

"Okay, you have to get up." Her voice firmer this time. "Where are the kids?"

"They're with my mother." A faint sound, almost inaudible, escaped my lips.

Despite the cruelty of the news, Leah knew this wouldn't be a time for difficult decisions. She knew I wouldn't consider anything other than carrying this baby to term. Leah squeezed my arm gently.

"You're not alone." Her voice firm but gentle.

The words felt inadequate, a mere whisper against the storm raging within me, but they were the truth. The fight ahead would be long, but Leah would be there, step by step.