The morning drags in slow and heavy.
I haven't moved much. The sheets are still tangled around my legs, and the curtains are still drawn. I'm not even sure what time it is. My head aches. My stomach feels like it's being twisted slowly, deliberately.
I haven't eaten. I haven't showered. I haven't cried either. There's a strange stillness to everything, like I've been suspended between yesterday and whatever comes next.
A knock comes the door, It's soft at first, almost hesitant. I ignore it.
Another knock, firmer. Still, I don't move.
The third one is accompanied by a voice. "Annalise, open the door."
I recognize that voice. Groaning, I drag myself out of bed, every muscle in my body protesting. The living room's still dim, the air still heavy. I open the door without looking through the peephole.
She's standing there in a tank top and joggers, brown hair piled into a messy bun, one brow arched like she's been waiting hours.
"I thought I was dying," she says, stepping in like she pays rent. "Turns out I just wasn't invited."
"Dan called you," I mutter, closing the door behind her.
"Bingo," she says, tossing her keys on the console. "Said you were sick. Said he didn't want to intrude. You know, since he's halfway out the door and all."
She finally turns to me and gives me the most startling look ever "Jesus, You look like a ghost."
I don't respond. She heads to the kitchen like it's routine.
"What are you actually doing here, Tara?" I call after her.
"I told you, Dan called me."
"Of course he did."
"Said you were home alone. Sick. Said you asked him to leave "
"Wow. Saint Dan. He listens to what I ask " I lean against the wall and cross my arms, watching her unpack soup containers and bottles of sweet drinks like I'm five and feverish.
She glances at me. "You've eaten?"
"No."
"Showered?"
"Don't start, Tara."
"I'm not starting. I'm here, aren't I?"
I don't respond. I walk back into the sitting room and relax on the couch, combing my hair with my hands.
Moments later, she appears with two bottles of water and a white paper bag with a familiar pharmacy logo.
I raise a brow. "Really?"
She tosses the bag on the coffee table. "Take it or don't. But you're pale, cranky, and you threw up. I've seen this movie."
"I'm not pregnant."
She shrugs. "Then prove me wrong."
I sit on the couch and stare at the bag, but I don't touch it. She joins me, criss-crossing her legs and stealing one of the water bottles back.
"So," she says, cracking the lid. "How bad is it?"
"Bad."
"'He told me he wants a divorce' bad?"
"Worse. He meant it."
Tara nods slowly. "You two were already holding on by dental floss. I'm not shocked."
I give her a sideways glare.
"Sorry," she says. "Too soon?"
I take a sip of water. "It's fine. I knew it was coming."
"You know what sucks?" she says, leaning back. "There's no protection for women like you. Like, legally married but emotionally abandoned? There's no clause for that. You either stay and rot, or leave and start over from scratch."
"I don't want to talk about laws right now."
"You never do. But look at you, he gets to leave, and you're here, in this tomb of a house, sick and alone."
"I'm not alone. You're here."
"I won't always be." She's quiet for a second. "And neither will he."
We sit in silence.
Tara eventually breaks the silence " Annalise, I understand what's happening, what you're going through. Just be sure you're not the one ruining what you both have"
" We have nothing anymore, Tara. The one thing we had, we could have had, got taken away and whatever feeling Dan had for me died that night, with the baby"
Tara doesn't say anything right away. She just sits with it. With me.
Then, softly, "I don't think love dies like that."
I look at her, tired and aching. "You didn't see the way he looked at me when he said he wanted a divorce."
She nods. "Maybe not. But I've seen the way he's looked at you for years, and I've seen the way you look when you're scared of losing someone you still love."
"I'm not scared of losing him," I lie.
She tilts her head. "No? Then why are you still wearing your ring?"
I look down at my hand before I can stop myself. My fingers curl instinctively. "Give me a break. He just told me about the divorce last night" I say defensively.
Tara exhales slowly. "Look, I'm not saying go back to pretending. I'm not saying stay if you're dying in it. I just… don't want you to run from something broken before you're sure it can't be rebuilt."
She reaches for her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and grabs the pharmacy bag from the coffee table, placing it beside me again.
"You don't have to take it now. But don't wait too long, either. Your body's trying to tell you something. Maybe you should listen."
She leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
"I'll check in later," she says, then walks toward the door. She pauses just before opening it. "Don't sit here and sink, okay?"
I nod.
The door clicks shut behind her.
The silence that follows feels different now.
Not louder.Just… heavier.
I glance at the test still sitting on the couch beside me.
I think I mentally gave up on the idea of a baby after we lost the last one—technically, the first. Since then, pregnancy has been a door I closed and quietly locked, somewhere in the back of my mind. Even the times I had delayed periods, the thought never crossed my mind. Never once did I run to the store or panic in the middle of the night. I just assumed my body was doing what it always does, lagging behind the rest of me. Even the doctors said stress causes delayed periods.
Maybe it's because my sex life with Dan slowed to almost nothing. I can count the number of times we touched each other in the last year on one hand, and I wouldn't need all five fingers.
I shift on the couch and pull the throw blanket tighter around my shoulders. The test is still there. Just sitting. Quiet. Waiting.
I get up instead.
Walk to the kitchen.
Put water on the stove for tea I probably won't finish.
I grab my laptop from the dining table and carry it to the couch like it matters. Like work is something I can use to make the room feel less full of questions.
I open a document. Type a line. Delete it. Open my email. Close it again. Refresh.
The cursor blinks at me like it's mocking my attempt at normalcy.
So I do what I know how to do—reply to an old client's message, send a short invoice, adjust a calendar invite. Things that feel like order.
But my eyes keep drifting. Back to the white bag on the couch.
Still there.
Still waiting.
I minimize the screen and set the laptop aside.
Then I sit back, pressing my palms into my thighs, breathing slowly. The way they taught us to breathe in therapy sessions I stopped going to months ago.
It's just a test, I tell myself.
But that's a lie.
I close the laptop and set it aside again. For the third time.
There's nothing left to do. No emails. No calls. No meetings I care enough about to prepare for.
I sit there, staring into nothing, letting the steam from the forgotten tea fog up the corner of my vision.
My fingers toy with the edge of the blanket, pulling threads loose, tightening them again.
For a moment, I think about the nursery we never finished. It was barely started, really. Just a sketch of a dream pinned to the wall.
Dan had picked a soft green for the walls. Said it was neutral. Said it was calming.
I didn't care about the color. I just wanted my baby.
After we lost him, I stopped walking past that room.Closed the door. Left the paint samples in a drawer. Never looked again.
I blink, shake my head, push the thought away. Not now.
I stand, walk to the sink, pour the cold tea out. Rinse the mug. Leave it in the rack.
The bag is still on the couch when I return, untouched.
I don't sit. I just look at it from a distance.
Then I move slowly, methodically. Pick it up, walk to the bathroom like I'm carrying something fragile, something I can't quite explain.
I close the door behind me.
The light above the mirror hums faintly. The air is still. The world, for a moment, narrows to this space. This breath.
I open the bag. Peel the foil.
And then I take the test.