I'm still sitting on the cold bathroom floor.
My knees are pulled tightly to my chest, arms wrapped around myself as if I can keep my body from falling apart. The chill seeps through my skin, biting into my bones, but I don't move. My eyes burn—swollen, red, aching—and tears keep slipping down no matter how many times I wipe them away. My hands tremble uncontrollably, fingers stiff, useless.
The floor is a mess.
Pregnancy sticks are scattered everywhere.
White plastic bodies. Thin windows. Two cruel red lines on every single one.
They lie there like evidence of a crime.Like proof that my life is already ruined.I stare at them, breath shallow.
"I'm doomed…" I whisper hoarsely. "Evan Lee… you're doomed."
My voice sounds hollow, distant—like it belongs to someone else.
I wipe my cheeks, but fresh tears immediately replace the old ones, blurring my vision. It's useless. I've been trying my whole life anyway—trying and trying and still failing.
Since childhood, I tried so hard.
