The shower has long since stopped running. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, rubbing my damp hair with a towel as wisps of steam still cling to the air around me. The warmth of the water lingers against my skin, but it does nothing to chase away the cold settled deep inside my chest.
My eyes are still slightly swollen, red-rimmed—the evidence of tears I never meant to shed. My face is pale beneath the soft bathroom light.
But the pain in my stomach has finally eased. That slow, gnawing ache that coiled low and deep, twisting with every breath I took, has faded into something bearable. Tolerable. Almost forgotten.
I lower the towel.
My hand moves on its own, pressing flat against my belly, over the soft fabric of my nightshirt. The gesture is unconscious. Instinctive. A question I still haven't dared to ask aloud.
Am I really pregnant?
