Mimeomia

27 | lucida

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LUCIDA

( — the brightest star in a constellation. )

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          IT'S STRANGE HOW LINCOLN'S APARTMENT SENDS MICHAELA'S HEARTBEAT INTO ERRATIC RHYTHMS. She doesn't even have to get out of her car for it to happen, but it also gives her enough time to try to calm down, take deep breaths and count to ten—no, to twenty—before heading out, as she knows everything will go a lot smoother if she doesn't knock on the door almost on the verge of tears.

          She doesn't want to admit she's, in fact, on the verge of tears, but that's thanks to all the imbalances screwing up her emotions. It's totally due to a purely organic reason, leaving no room for alternative interpretations. 

          Taking her millionth deep breath of the past ten minutes, she tucks strands of hair behind her ears and finally exits the car with wobbly legs. Her balance has been calling it quits and she insists on wearing heels and stilettos just because she can—and also because there will come a time when she won't be able to do it thanks to the future swelling on her joints—but she's determined to push through it.

          With June being closer, the weather gets warmer, and Michaela is almost three months pregnant, having only gained two miserable pounds. It's worrisome, even if the doctors say her health is fine and so is the baby's, as it seems to be growing at the rhythm it should be, but she sees absolutely no changes. In fact, if it weren't for all those ultrasounds, she'd have her doubts regarding the existence of the kid.

          Working for Serotinal Magazine has been doing wonders for her, she thinks, as she constantly feels eager to leave her house and go to work, which is something she rarely ever felt when she still worked for UD, and the staff is much nicer, having been extremely welcoming. It's comforting not working in a place where every wall is made of thin glass, granting her some privacy, but it's unnerving how the bouquets keep coming.

          She wishes people would stop doing that, whoever they are, as it's a constant reminder of how she played herself by thinking Barbra Streisand still gave a damn. She doesn't care who's sending them, knowing pretty darn well it's not Lincoln—sending her flowers every day for a year would be invading her privacy and he has always been marvelous at not doing that, giving her enough space to heal—and is always minutes away from demanding to know their identity.

          She's shuddering as she steps into the complex, feeling as though it has been an eternity since she last set foot in this place. Everything looks exactly the same as it did the last time she came here, except she's not crying anymore and is curiously pregnant, but she's still hoping no one will notice anything—as if there was anything to be noticed. Her hair is two inches shorter, but that's about it.

          Her lungs are burning when she knocks on the door, already dreading Lincoln's reaction—if he's even home. The amount of time Michaela has to wait until someone answers the door isn't nearly enough for her to think about what she's going to say and how she's going to say it, and, as she goes through her speech in her head, counting the seconds until the door swings open, she begins to regret having come here.

          It wouldn't be fair to him if she stayed quiet about it, anyway. It's his baby as well and he certainly deserves to know it exists and Michaela wants to keep it, but she doesn't want him to feel forced to stop everything he's doing and forget they're not on speaking terms. She doesn't want them to get back together just because of the baby—if they get back together, it should be because they want to do it for each other and for what they have, not for an extra variable in the equation.