His name was Nathaniel

114

The silence between them was no longer comfortable.

It was filled with too many things left unsaid, too many gestures missed. Nathaniel moved around the apartment as if following a script—washing dishes, refilling Adaliya's water glass, answering phone calls in hushed tones—but the man she knew and loved felt just slightly out of reach.

He wasn't cold. He wasn't distant in the traditional sense. But his warmth had dimmed, like he was flickering further and further away each time she reached for him.

Adaliya noticed the shift most clearly in the mornings.

Normally, Nathaniel would lie in bed longer than her, arm loosely wrapped around her waist, whispering sarcastic commentary about how she always woke up before the sun. But now, he was always gone by the time she stirred. She'd wake up to the soft clink of coffee mugs in the kitchen or the rustle of papers as he packed for another meeting.

Even today, when she finally caught him sitting in the office, his focus was locked on spreadsheets and legal briefs. He barely looked up when she stepped in with a warm breakfast tray.

She watched him from the doorway, lips pressed together. Something inside her cracked.

"You're planning our child's entire life," she said, "without ever letting them feel like you're in it."

Nathaniel blinked, then looked up slowly. "What?"

"You're here, but you're not living this with me." Her voice was quiet, but heavy. "You're just... preparing to leave."

Nathaniel stood from his chair, lips parting like he might protest—but he didn't speak.

"I picked up vitamins today," she continued. "I was looking at nursery colors, Nathaniel. I held my stomach in the mirror just to imagine what I'll look like in five months." She swallowed thickly. "And all you've done is research what happens when you're gone."

He sighed, his chest tightening with guilt. "I'm doing what I can—"

"No, you're doing what you always do. You're trying to control the outcome." Her voice trembled. "But this isn't a deal, Nathaniel. It's our child. It's me. I need you. Not your spreadsheets. Not your plans. You."

Nathaniel turned his face away, jaw tight.

"I don't want to wake up one day," she whispered, "and realize I've spent our last years watching you plan for your death instead of living your life."

That broke him.

He stepped forward, hands clenched by his sides. "You think I don't want to live this? You think I haven't imagined what it would be like to hold our child? Or walk them to school? Or grow old with you?"

His voice cracked. "I think about it every day. And every time I do, I feel like someone is pulling it away."

Adaliya's eyes welled up.

"I'm scared," he whispered. "I'm scared of loving them. I'm scared of loving you even more than I already do. Because if I let myself hope... if I let myself fully step into this and then I die—"

He stopped, his throat tightening with emotion.

"I don't want to be a ghost in their life. I don't want to give them memories that only last until they're six or ten or fifteen. I don't want to be your heartbreak."

Adaliya stepped forward slowly. "Then don't be."

He looked up, stunned.

"Be my love story. Be our baby's father. Be here now." Her voice quivered, but her eyes were firm. "Because I'd rather have five good years with you than fifty with someone else. And I think you want that too."

Nathaniel stared at her for a long time. And then, he finally stepped closer—resting his hand, hesitant and shaking, against her belly.

She covered it with her own.

"I don't want you to leave," she whispered.

"I don't want to leave either," he replied, voice hoarse.

And for the first time in weeks, Nathaniel allowed himself to feel—not as a man preparing for an end, but as a man fighting for a beginning.

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