The hospital waiting room was too white, too clean, too unforgiving. The hum of fluorescent lights drilled into my head. I stared at the floor tiles, each square identical, endless, a maze I couldn't escape.
Clara sat beside me, her leg bouncing, her gaze fixed on me like a hawk. She had already filled out the paperwork, handing it to the nurse with her usual mix of efficiency and stubbornness.
"You're pale," she whispered for the third time.
"I told you, I'm fine." The words sounded hollow even to me.
She arched a brow. "Fine people don't nearly faint twice in one week. Fine people don't run out of class every morning to vomit."
I clenched my fists in my lap. She wasn't wrong. I hated that she wasn't wrong.
When the nurse finally called my name, my heart slammed against my ribs. Clara didn't wait for permission—she slipped her arm through mine and stood with me. "I'm coming," she said firmly.
I didn't have the strength to argue.
The doctor's office was bright, with framed certificates on the walls and a vase of fake lilies on the desk. She was kind, her voice gentle, but her questions cut like scalpels.
"How long have you been experiencing nausea?"
"About… five weeks," I whispered.
"And fatigue?"
"Around the same."
Clara squeezed my hand, urging me to keep going.
The doctor nodded, making notes. "We'll run a quick test. Please wait here."
When she left, the silence was unbearable.
Clara leaned closer, whispering, "It could be stress. Exams, late nights. Or anemia. Don't panic yet."
I tried to nod, but panic had already built a home in my chest.
Minutes dragged by like hours. My palms were sweaty, my breath shallow. I wanted to run. To leave. To keep living in denial.
But then the door opened, and the doctor returned with a sheet of paper. Her eyes softened as she looked at me.
"Congratulations," she said gently. "You're about six weeks pregnant."
The word hit me like thunder.
Pregnant.
The room spun. I gripped the chair to keep from falling.
Clara gasped beside me, but I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. My hand drifted instinctively to my stomach. Six weeks. The night of the gala.
Alexander.
His touch, his voice, his lips whispering my name—every memory surged back, sharper than ever.
And now, I carried his child.
The world outside the hospital looked the same, but I was not.
The drizzle of rain chilled my skin, but inside I burned. Clara held my arm tightly as we walked down the steps.
"Amelia, talk to me," she pleaded. "Say something."
My lips trembled. "I… I'm pregnant."
She blinked, as though hearing it aloud made it real. "Oh my God."
Tears stung my eyes. "Clara… it's his."
Her face softened, but worry clouded her gaze. "Are you going to tell him?"
"I have to," I whispered. "He has a right to know."
But even as I said it, the image of Alexander with his fiancée seared through my mind. Her perfect smile. Her hand curled possessively around his arm. His silence.
What if he denied it? What if he called me a liar? What if he chose her?
My stomach twisted, not from sickness this time, but from fear.
The storm tapped against the glass of my office as I sat across from her. My fiancée.
She was flawless, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her laughter melodic. She spoke of plans, of family dinners, of the wedding my family was so eager for.
I nodded, smiled where appropriate, but my thoughts weren't in the room.
They were with Amelia.
I saw her pale face in class, her trembling hands. I remembered her nearly stumbling in the hallway, her lips pressed tight to hide her pain.
Was she sick? Did she need help?
I wanted to ask. I wanted to find her, to demand answers. But I had no right. Not anymore.
So I sat in silence, listening to a woman I didn't love, while the one I couldn't forget slipped further from my reach.
The dorm was quiet, Clara asleep across the room. I lay curled on my bed, knees drawn up, my hands pressed over my stomach.
Pregnant.
Every time I whispered it, tears filled my eyes.
A child. His child.
I thought of Alexander's face, his rare, fleeting softness when he looked at me that night. I thought of the way his voice broke when he whispered my name.
I wanted to tell him. To share this burden, this miracle, this terror.
But I had seen him with her.
And that was enough.
My tears soaked the pillow as I whispered into the darkness, "I'll protect you. Even if it means he never knows. Even if it means I have to do it alone."
The vow tore me in two.
Because I loved him. But love wasn't enough.
He belonged to someone else.
And now, I carried the truth that would change everything.