Ariana's POV
The soft buzz of my phone broke the silence just as I settled into bed.
A faint glow filled the room.
> Zack: Hey. You okay? You looked a little off earlier.
My thumb hovered above the screen. The words were simple, but they sank deep. He'd noticed—he always did. I stared at the message until the brightness blurred in my eyes.
> Ariana: I'm fine. Just tired.
I hit send and let the phone fall beside me. The blanket brushed my chin as I curled on my side. The night air drifted through the half-open window, cool against my legs. Moonlight painted silver lines across my sheets, and I told myself I'd check if he replied. But before I could, sleep claimed me.
---
Morning light cut through the curtains, too bright, too harsh.
The nausea came before I even sat up. It hit fast, rolling through me like a storm. My bare feet slapped the cold floor as I rushed to the bathroom, gripping the sink when it was over.
The girl in the mirror looked nothing like the one who'd smiled at the fair—pale, unsteady, eyes rimmed with red. My hands trembled as I turned on the tap.
I already knew what it meant. I just wasn't ready to say it out loud.
After a long shower, I slipped into a loose white sweater and faded jeans. My hair was pulled into a messy bun, stray strands sticking to my damp neck. I stared at myself one last time—if I looked normal, maybe I could pretend everything was.
I texted Harper to meet me at the café down the street. Coffee, I told myself. Just coffee. Maybe normal could start there.
---
The café buzzed with quiet chatter and clinking mugs. The smell of espresso and sugar filled the air, almost comforting. I chose a corner seat and wrapped my fingers around an untouched cup.
Harper arrived five minutes later, her ponytail swaying as she walked. The moment she saw me, her smile faltered.
"Wow," she said, sliding into the chair opposite me. "You look… exhausted."
I tried to laugh, but it came out sounding thin. "Morning to you too."
She leaned forward. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I muttered, staring at the swirl of foam in my cup.
Harper raised a brow. "You've barely said a word since I sat down. You're pale. Your hands are shaking. And you look like you haven't eaten in days."
I sighed. "I didn't sleep well."
"Uh-huh." Her voice softened, but the worry stayed. "Ari, don't do that thing where you act fine when you're not."
The sound of spoons clinking and people laughing around us felt distant, muffled. My chest tightened. "Harper, can we not do this here?"
Her expression hardened with resolve. "Fine. We'll do it at the hospital."
My stomach dropped. "Harper, no—"
"Get up," she said, standing. "You look like you're about to faint."
"I'm fine!"
She crossed her arms. "Either you come with me, or I drag you there myself. Your choice."
The panic rose in my throat. She couldn't know. Not like this. Not here.
"Harper, please—"
Her tone softened again. "You're my best friend. Let me help."
The fight drained out of me. "Okay," I whispered. "But it's nothing serious."
---
The drive to the hospital stretched forever. My palms stayed damp in my lap, my gaze fixed on the window. Every bump in the road made my heart jump.
Harper parked and glanced at me. "I'm coming in."
"Of course you are," I said under my breath, forcing a smile I didn't feel.
The air inside was too cold, the walls too white. While Harper handled the paperwork, I sat hunched on the waiting-room bench, pretending to scroll through my phone. When the nurse called my name, my legs felt heavy as I followed her.
The room smelled faintly of antiseptic. The nurse's voice was calm, almost kind. "You've been feeling sick and dizzy?"
I nodded, barely meeting her eyes.
"Any stress lately?"
A humorless laugh escaped me. "Something like that."
She smiled faintly and wrote something down. A few minutes later, she returned, chart in hand. "Miss Vale," she said, gentle and matter-of-fact, "you're pregnant."
The word hung in the air like a drop of ink spreading through water.
Harper froze beside me. "I—what?"
The nurse kept talking about vitamins and appointments, her tone bright and professional, but I didn't hear any of it. My heartbeat drowned everything else out.
I managed a nod. "Thank you."
When the nurse left, Harper turned toward me. Her mouth opened, but she shut it again, exhaling slowly.
"We'll talk later," she said finally, her voice quiet but trembling.
I just nodded, unable to speak.
The car was quiet at first. Too quiet.
Harper's hands gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles pale against the leather. The air between us felt heavy—as if either of us breathed too hard, it would shatter.
"You already knew," she said finally, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the silence.
I didn't answer. The city lights flickered across her face as we passed them, painting her in shifting colors—anger, disbelief, hurt.
"Did you hear me, Ari?" she pressed, louder now. "You knew you were pregnant, didn't you?"
I swallowed hard, staring at my reflection in the window. "Harper, please—"
"Please what?" she snapped, turning toward me. "Please don't ask? Please pretend I didn't just sit there while a nurse told you something you already knew?"
I flinched. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?" Her voice cracked on the last word. "You've been pale for weeks?, The nurse said you are 3 weeks gone. You've been lying to me, Ariana."
My fingers fidgeted in my lap. "I wasn't lying."
"Really?" she said bitterly. "You've been throwing up, barely eating, drifting off in the middle of conversations—and I thought you were just stressed. You let me worry for nothing!"
"I didn't want you to worry," I whispered.
Her laugh was short and harsh. "Well, congratulations. I'm worried now."
I pressed my palms together, my breath shaky. The hum of the car engine filled the space between us.
Harper's eyes darted toward me again, softening for a second. "Ari, who is it?"
My heart stopped.
She exhaled. "I'm not judging you. I just… need to understand. You've been hiding something huge, and I can't help if you keep pushing me away."
"I can't talk about it," I murmured.
"Why not?"
"Because saying it out loud will make it real," I said, my voice trembling.
Harper's lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. For a moment, the only sound was the rain beginning to tap against the windshield.
Then she spoke again—quieter, almost pleading. "You don't have to tell me everything. Just tell me you're okay."
I met her gaze for the first time. My chest ached. "I don't know if I am."
The red glow of the traffic light washed over us, bathing the car in uneasy silence.
Harper's hand twitched toward me, then stopped halfway. "Ari…"
I blinked back the sting in my eyes. "Please don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you already know something I'm still trying to deny."
The light turned green, but Harper didn't move. The car stayed still in the middle of the quiet street, our breaths shallow, our eyes locked.
She finally whispered, "Ariana, what are you hiding from me?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The words tangled in my throat, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears.
The horn of a car behind us broke the moment. Harper startled, then slammed her hand on the wheel, frustration flashing in her eyes.
She pulled over, turned off the engine, and faced me fully. "No more running from this," she said, voice steady now, cold and fragile all at once. "We're going to talk."