I never told him.
Weeks passed. Then a full month.
Every time I tried, something held me back. Sometimes it was his smile, soft and tired after work, when he'd slip his shoes off at my door like he belonged here. Sometimes it was the way he'd hold me in his sleep, unconsciously, like even his dreams didn't want to let go.
But mostly, it was fear.
Because deep down, I knew he'd leave if I gave him a reason to.
So, I stayed quiet.
I went to work. I ate what I could. I smiled when he texted.
And I loved him in silence.
There were moments of joy, too.
One night he brought over Thai food and a bouquet of sunflowers — no explanation, just handed them to me like it was nothing.
"What's this for?" I asked, caught off guard.
He shrugged. "You've been… glowing lately."
I laughed nervously. "Must be the oily forehead."
He leaned in and kissed my temple. "It suits you."
I froze. I wanted to tell him then. To say, I'm glowing because of you. Because of us. Because of what we accidentally made.
But I didn't.
Because that night, as he lay asleep beside me again, I caught myself whispering apologies to the baby I hadn't even named.
Then there was the night I bled.
Just a little. Just enough to panic.
I left work early; and said I had a migraine. I went to the OB alone. Sat in a too-white room with trembling hands while the doctor checked quietly.
"You're okay," she said. "The baby's okay. Just take it easy. Less stress."
Less stress. What a joke.
I went home and stared at the ceiling for hours, Elián's name lighting up my phone.
Elián:
Babe, are you okay? No reply all day.
Elián:
Want me to come over?
I didn't answer.
I just placed a hand on my stomach and whispered, "I'm trying."
A few weeks later, I went to the mall with my friends — first time in a while. I needed noise. Laughter. Normal.
We were in SM North, walking out of a milk tea shop when I saw him.
Elián.
He was across the upper level, just near the escalator.
With someone.
A girl — tall, soft-spoken-looking, her hand gently tucked into his arm like it belonged there. She leaned in to say something. He smiled.
It wasn't a maybe. It wasn't innocent.
It was that smile. The one he gave when he liked someone for real.
I stopped walking.
Everything blurred — the mall lights, the chatter, even my friends beside me.
All I could see was the shape of him beside someone who wasn't me.
A tiny flutter moved in my stomach.
A reminder.
You're not alone.
And suddenly, I wasn't just holding back tears — I was holding a whole world inside me that he didn't know existed.
I turned away quickly.
"Let's go," I told my friends. "I forgot I have to be somewhere."
I didn't.
I just needed to breathe.
That night, I didn't cry.
I sat on my bed, hands over the soft curve that had started to form.
"He doesn't know," I whispered to myself. "And maybe… maybe he never will."
Because in that moment, I realized something terrifying:
I had given him everything.
But he was already giving himself to someone else.
And I — stupidly, foolishly — still loved him anyway.
He came over that night.
I don't know if it was guilt or intuition that brought him to my door, but he was there — holding takeout and flashing the same tired smile that used to make me feel safe.
"Sorry, work was hell," he said, dropping his bag by the couch like he always did. "I needed this."
I didn't speak.
I just nodded and took the bag from his hands, pretending to be fine. Pretending I hadn't seen him hours ago with someone else. Pretending I wasn't carrying his child. Pretending I wasn't unraveling.
He wrapped his arms around me from behind in the kitchen. His chin rested on my shoulder. "Missed you."
I froze.
I could feel it — his warmth, his breath, his weight pressing into the space that used to feel like home.
But something in me had shifted.
Because love that isn't chosen is just… surviving.
We ate in silence. He talked about his day — a broken printer, a passive-aggressive client, a song stuck in his head. I nodded at the right moment. I laughed when he made a joke.
I played the part.
But I kept wondering: Did she laugh too?
Did she touch your arm the way I do?
Did you call her the same nickname?
He reached for my hand across the table.
"I've been meaning to ask," he said softly. "Are you okay lately? You've been… quiet."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"I'm fine."
He tilted his head. "You sure?"
No.
No, I was not sure.
I was exhausted. I was scared. I was heartbroken in advance. And I hated that I had no right to be.
Because he never promised me anything.
Because I agreed to this.
Because I was the one who said "Okay."
"I'm just tired," I whispered.
He squeezed my hand. "Then rest. I got you."
I almost laughed at the irony.
Because no — he didn't have me. Not really.
Later that night, he was in the shower. His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I didn't mean to check it.
But I saw the name flash.
Sofia.
And the message that followed:
Sofia:
I had a good time today.
Let's do it again.
A smiley.
A heart.
I didn't open it. I didn't scroll.
I didn't need to.
My chest tightened. I couldn't breathe.
Because I was right.
I wasn't the only one.
He came out moments later, drying his hair with my towel, humming to himself like nothing had changed.
He crawled into bed beside me. His fingers reached for mine.
"You, okay?" he asked again, voice low, gentle.
I turned my face away; afraid I'd shatter if he saw my eyes.
"Yeah," I whispered.
I curled into myself as he fell asleep beside me — the same man I was building a secret future with… who was already writing a different one with someone else.
And for the first time since I met him, I felt truly alone and it breaks me... Again.