You dragged your feet up the brick walkway to the front door, exhausted from another gray day, alone and buried in the rawness of your loss.
It’d been a week since fist had hit drywall, crushing your trust of Kyrie to dust, just like that of which you had to brush from the tile floors after scrubbing it clean of the scarlet evidence of what had been torn from your body.
What the hell did you do?
His words ricocheted inside your skull as you shoved the key hastily into the keyhole on the doorknob. You flung it open, angrily kicking off your boots. What did you do? It was more a matter of what you didn’t do. After two failed pregnancies, you had exercised every ounce of your power to keep that baby strong. You invested your heart into it, briefly allowing yourself to hope that maybe this time, it would be okay. Maybe for once, things would work out the way they were supposed to.
Stomping your way down the hall, you didn’t even notice the keys on the coffee table or the light in the kitchen. You were already halfway across the tile floor before you even registered the slumped figure at the small kitchen table.
You jumped, gasping as your hand flew to your chest, “Holy shit.”
Kyrie looked up, his eyes dark as he acknowledged you, “Hey.”
You shook away the adrenaline pumping through your veins, blinking slowly as you once again felt anger in your gut. You narrowed your eyes, “What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you,” his hands were rested flat on the table and you could tell he was forcing himself to look you in the eyes.
“That ship sailed about a week ago.”
He frowned and you got some minuscule sense of satisfaction from his agitation.
He looked to his left, focusing intently on the window, “I fucked up. I fucked up really bad. I’m sorry.”
You raised your eyebrows, letting out a puff of air, “Well that just solves everything, doesn’t it?”
“Jesus Christ, Y/N,” he slammed a fist down on the table, rattling the entire kitchen. Your eyes widened as you remembered that same fist connecting with the bathroom wall as you sobbed on the ground. “I’m trying, here. Doesn’t that count for something?”
You backed away but not enough for him to notice, “Yeah, it does, Liam. But not enough. It doesn’t count for enough.”
He met your eyes, running a hand through his hair, “Y/N, I’m sorry. I know you didn’t do anything. I–I was just–this is the third time. I was angry, I was sad…I didn’t know who else to blame.”
Your lip begin to shake at the thought of your little baby and you blinked back tears, “How about not blaming anyone, Kyrie? How about supporting me–realizing that I just lost a fucking kid, too. You might’ve been the dad, but I was that poor little baby’s mother. It was inside me not you.”
Even from your spot 10 feet away, you could see the tears well in his eyes, “I’m so sorry.”
“I think you should go.”
“Please,” his voice shook, “We can get past this.”
“Kyrie,” you frowned, holding back tears once again, “Just, go back to Kevin's. I’ll call Lebron and he can stop by and bring you some things. Okay?”
“Don’t do this.”
“I’m going to go shower,” you took a deep breath, “I want you gone by the time I come back.”
“I love you,” he threw out his last efforts.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
You watched as his world collapsed just as yours had the week before. And although you knew that you should be jumping with joy at the thought of him crumbling beneath the weight of this loss–you couldn’t find the energy. No matter what he did a week ago, he was a part of you–a part you wish you could change.
