Chapter 128 Chapter 128
I slid down against the bathroom cabinet until I was sitting on the cold tile floor. I didn’t cry immediately. I didn’t scream, I didn’t even panic, I just felt empty.
There’s something cruel about how the body remembers trauma. The first miscarriage had been a shock. Grief. Confusion. This one felt like inevitability. Like my body had followed through on a promise it never asked to make.
I stayed there for a long time, watching the red spread across white fabric like it was happening to someone else. I should call him; that thought came and went. If I call him, it becomes real, and I’ll see it on his face again, the controlled devastation, the helplessness he tries to hide. The way he goes quiet in a way that scares me more than anger ever could.
I didn’t want to watch him lose something again, and I didn’t want to feel him watching me break. So I cleaned myself up, slowly and mechanically.
I wrapped the ruined fabric in layers of tissue and buried it at the bottom of the trash under other things. I showered until the water turned lukewarm. I stood there longer than necessary, letting it hit my back while my mind stayed blank.
When I stepped out, I looked almost normal again, almost. By the time Zaiel came home, I was sitting on the edge of the bed reading something I hadn’t absorbed a single word of. He walked in and paused by the door, looking at me.
“You look exhausted.” he said
“I didn’t sleep; I tried to but couldn’t. "I said with a sigh.
He crossed the room and crouched down in front of me, his hands resting on my knees. His eyes searched my face carefully.
“Are you in pain?” he asked.
“No.” That wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t entirely false either; the physical pain had dulled, but the pain of the absence hurt more. He brushed a strand of hair away from my face. “You’re pale,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
He exhaled slowly, clearly unconvinced. “We have another appointment next week,” he said. “We’ll check on everything then,” he said, and I forced myself to nod; there would be nothing to check.
I lay beside him that night and stared into the dark again. He wrapped himself around me like he had every night since we found out. Protective, solid, and present. I felt like a fraud in his arms; he slept eventually, but I didn’t.
The bleeding continued through the night, lighter but steady. I woke before him and changed quietly in the bathroom. I cleaned up every trace like I was erasing evidence. It wasn’t about shame; it was about control.
If I told him, he would try to fix it. He would call doctors, schedule emergency appointments, and mobilize the world for me, but there was nothing to fix. It was over. By the third day, the bleeding had slowed down, and so had I.
I moved differently, spoke less, and ate mechanically. I avoided his touch without making it obvious, but he noticed anyway; he always does.
“What’s going on?” he asked that evening when I stepped away from him in the kitchen.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true,” he said.
I kept my back to him while rinsing a glass that didn’t need rinsing. “You’re pulling away,” he said, and I paused for a millisecond.
“I’m tired.”
“You’re distant,” he replied.
“I’m overwhelmed.” I said, "He stepped closer behind me, his presence filling the space." “Talk to me,” he said quietly.
“There’s nothing to say,” I said, and his hands came to rest lightly on my hips. I felt the warmth of his hands through the fabric and forced myself not to flinch.
“There’s always something to say,” he said. I dried my hands and turned around slowly. “What do you want me to say, Zaiel?” I asked.
“The truth,” he said, and the word landed heavy. I looked at him and saw concern turning into frustration.
“You’ve been different for days,” he continued. “You won’t look at me. You won’t let me touch you. If something’s wrong, tell me,” he said softly, and I almost did. The words rose in my throat, but it was gone just as fast.
But then I imagined what his reaction would be—the tightening of his jaw, the immediate shift into control mode, and the guilt he would bury under logistics—and I couldn’t do it.
“It’s just hormones,” I said instead. “I’m adjusting.”
He went still.
“You think I don’t know the difference?” he asked.
“I think you’re overreacting,” I said, and his eyes darkened slightly.
“Overreacting?” he asked.
“You’re monitoring me like I’m fragile.” I said,
“You are fragile,” he replied.
“There it is,” I snapped quietly. “You don’t see me. You see a condition.”
His expression hardened. “That’s not fair, Tessa.”
“Isn’t it?” I asked.
“I’m trying to protect you,” he said.
“From what?”
His voice dropped lower. “From losing another one,” he said; the words cut deeper than he realized. I folded my arms over my chest.
“You can’t protect me from that,” I said, and he stepped closer.
“Stop shutting me out,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he replied.
“I just need space.”
“You’ve needed space for weeks,” he said. The silence stretching between us, tight and uncomfortable.
“You don’t trust me,” he said finally.
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” I asked.
“And I’m your husband,” he said.
“There’s more to me than this pregnancy.”
He stared at me like he was trying to solve something that kept changing shape.
“I know that,” he said slowly. “But you’re acting like I’m the enemy.”
“I’m not.”
“You treat me like I am,” he said softly. “I am trying to stand beside you, and you keep stepping away.” He continued, and the truth of that burned, because I really was stepping away. Every time he reached for me, I felt guilt press against my ribs.
If I let him stand beside me, he’d see the truth written all over my face, and I wasn’t ready to watch him grieve again.
“You’re suffocating me,” I said quietly, and that did it; he stepped back like I had physically pushed him. “I’ve done nothing but support you,” he said.
“I know,” I said with a sigh.
“Then why does it feel like you’re punishing me?” he asked. The question lingered between us because I didn’t have a good answer. I wasn’t punishing him; I was protecting both of us from a grief that had already happened.
“I need time,” I said finally.
“For what?” he asked.
“To figure myself out.”
He studied me for a long moment. “You’re already mine,” he said softly. “You don’t have to retreat to stay that way,” he said, and that hurt more than anything else because I wasn’t retreating to leave him; I was retreating to survive myself.
He walked past me and left the kitchen without another word; the sound of his office door closing echoed down the hallway. I stood there alone, one hand resting unconsciously over my abdomen, flat again, empty again, and he didn’t know.