We sat there for a while after the teasing died down, the room settling into a quiet that didn't feel heavy anymore. The kind of quiet that lets truth surface when it's ready. Raymond leaned back slightly, studying me the way someone does when they realize they know pieces of your pain but not your story.
"You know," he said softly, "I never asked you your name."
I blinked. Then I laughed—small, almost embarrassed. "Wow. You're right."
He raised an eyebrow, amused. "I tell you I killed a man, and we plan a shopping trip, but I don't know your name."
"My name is Lily," I said. Saying it out loud felt strange, like I was reintroducing myself to the world. "I guess I forgot to tell you."
"Lily," he repeated quietly, as if testing the sound of it. "It suits you."
Something in my chest tightened. I looked away, suddenly overwhelmed by how long it had been since someone said my name without expectation, without ownership, without history attached to it.
He didn't push. He just waited.
"I didn't come here by choice," I said finally. "Not really."
Raymond nodded once. "I figured."
So I told him. Not all at once, not neatly. The words came out broken, uneven, like they had been waiting too long. I told him about the city I left, the man I loved for seven years, the betrayal that hollowed me out. I told him about the friend who became the wound, the family who dismissed me, the way I had packed my life into bags and fled because staying would have destroyed me.
"I couldn't breathe there anymore," I said, my voice shaking. "Every street felt like a reminder of how stupid I was for believing in him."
Raymond didn't interrupt. He didn't react with shock or pity. He just listened, his presence steady, grounded.
"And now…" I hesitated, my hands instinctively moving to my stomach. "Now I'm pregnant. Again."
His expression changed—not alarmed, not judgmental. Just attentive.
"I don't have a job," I continued quickly, like I needed to justify my fear. "I don't even fully have this place yet. I've done it twice before—ended it. For him. Because he wasn't ready. Because he didn't want responsibility."
My throat tightened. "And I thought… maybe I should do it again. I don't see another option."
The room went very still. Raymond leaned forward slightly, his voice low, careful.
"Lily," he said gently, "don't."
I looked up, startled—not by the word, but by the way he said my name. Like it mattered.
"I'm not judging you," he continued. "I know your life has been hell. I know you've been alone. But that baby…" He paused, choosing his words with care. "That baby didn't do anything wrong."
I felt tears sting my eyes. "You don't understand. I'm not ready. I'm broken. I have nothing to offer."
He shook his head slowly. "That's not true. You're still here. You survived things that would have crushed most people. Ending a life because someone else failed you—because the world failed you—that's too heavy a price."
His voice didn't rise. He didn't force anything. He just spoke with a quiet certainty that cut through my panic.
"It's not worth killing a baby for mistakes that weren't yours," he said softly. "Not when the baby did nothing wrong."
The words hit me hard. Not like an accusation—but like a mirror.
I broke then. Not loudly. Just tears slipping down my face as I covered my mouth, my shoulders shaking. "I'm scared," I whispered. "I don't want to be alone again."
Raymond didn't touch me. He didn't cross a line. He just stayed close enough to feel real.
"You're not alone right now," he said. "And you don't have to decide everything today. Fear makes people rush into choices they regret forever."
I wiped my face, breathing unevenly. "Why do you care?"
He met my eyes. "Because I know what it's like to live with something you can't undo."
The words lingered between us.
For the first time since I found out I was pregnant, I didn't feel trapped. I didn't feel forced into survival mode. I felt… paused. Like time had slowed enough for me to breathe.
"I'm Lily," I said again, steadier this time.
He nodded. "I know."
And in that moment, with my name spoken and my truth laid bare, something shifted. Not love. Not certainty. But the beginning of something I hadn't felt in a long time—
being seen without being owned.