The nursery smells like fresh paint.
That's the first thing I remember.
Soft yellow walls.
White curtains.
A crib that cost more than most people's rent.
I chose everything.
Every detail.
Every shade.
Every tiny star painted on the ceiling.
I remember standing in the doorway, one hand pressed to my stomach.
Six months pregnant.
Six months happy.
Six months believing nothing could touch us.
And then—
The hospital.
The blood.
The silence.
My breath shudders.
"I remember the room," I whisper.
Adrian doesn't speak.
He knows better now.
If he interrupts, I'll lose it.
"The walls were yellow," I say faintly.
"Yes."
"There were stars."
"Yes."
"And the rocking chair."
He swallows.
"White linen."
My chest tightens painfully.
"I couldn't go inside."
"You locked the door."
I nod slowly.
Because I remember that too.
Not clearly.
But enough.
The handle felt cold in my hand.
The hallway felt too bright.
The house too quiet.
"They sent us home with nothing," I whisper.
Adrian's jaw tightens.
"They sent us home empty."
The word echoes.
Empty.
"I hated the silence," I continue.
"I hated that the world didn't stop."
Cars still drove outside.
Emails still came in.
Meetings still needed approval.
People still asked me about deadlines.
But my body—
My body still thought it was carrying life.
"I heard him cry," I whisper suddenly.
Adrian's eyes flicker.
"You told me that."
"I heard him crying at night."
There's no baby.
There was no baby in the house.
But grief doesn't follow logic.
"I would wake up panicking," I say, my voice shaking.
"Thinking he was alone."
"You'd run down the hallway," Adrian says quietly.
"And stop at the door."
I nod slowly.
"I couldn't open it."
"You blamed yourself."
The words fall gently.
Not accusing.
Just factual.
"It was my body," I whisper.
"It failed."
"No."
"Yes."
"Alessa—"
"It was my body!" I snap.
The sound echoes sharply in the study.
Silence follows.
Heavy.
Painful.
"You didn't say that," he says quietly.
I freeze.
"What?"
"You didn't say your body failed."
My stomach drops.
"What did I say?"
His voice lowers.
"You said you failed him."
My throat tightens instantly.
No.
No.
"I would never—"
"You did."
The words don't carry anger.
Just memory.
"What did I say?" I whisper.
He looks at me carefully.
Like he's deciding whether I can survive the truth.
"You were standing in the nursery."
My pulse pounds loudly in my ears.
"You hadn't gone inside in weeks."
The memory sharpens slightly.
The hallway dim.
The door cracked open.
Adrian behind me.
"I told you to get rid of it," he continues quietly.
The air leaves my lungs.
"I what?"
"You said you couldn't look at it."
The nursery.
The crib.
The tiny folded blankets.
"You said every time you saw it, you remembered that you weren't enough to keep him alive."
My vision blurs.
"That's not true."
"You believed it was."
"I would never say that about our baby."
His eyes soften slightly.
"You weren't talking about the baby."
The realization hits slowly.
Coldly.
Like ice sliding under my skin.
"Who was I talking about?" I whisper.
His voice drops lower.
"Me."
The world tilts.
"I blamed you?"
"You said I should've been able to protect you."
My chest constricts painfully.
"No."
"Yes."
"I would never."
"You were grieving."
"That's not an excuse."
"No," he agrees softly. "It's not."
Tears blur everything now.
"I accused you of failing?"
"You asked why I wasn't there."
My mind struggles.
"I was in the hospital."
"Yes."
"I was holding your hand."
"Yes."
"Then why would I—"
"You said I should have noticed sooner."
The memory cracks open violently.
A hospital room.
White lights.
Machines.
A doctor saying something about complications.
About internal bleeding.
About no heartbeat.
I remember screaming.
I remember Adrian gripping my hand.
I remember pushing him away.
"You should have known," I whisper faintly.
That's what I said.
I remember it now.
"You're a problem-solver," I had cried.
"You fix everything. Why couldn't you fix this?"
My knees buckle slightly.
I grab the desk.
"I said that," I breathe.
"Yes."
"I blamed you for something no one could control."
"Yes."
"And you—"
"I let you."
The quiet strength in that answer breaks something inside me.
"You let me hate you."
"You needed someone to blame."
"So you let it be you?"
"Yes."
My chest aches so violently I can barely stand it.
"I asked for the divorce," I whisper.
"Yes."
"Because I thought you failed."
"No."
"Then why?"
His eyes meet mine steadily.
"Because you thought you poisoned everything you touched."
The words steal the air from my lungs.
"That's not—"
"You said you ruin people."
My breathing turns shallow.
"I said that?"
"Yes."
"You said first the baby."
My hands start shaking uncontrollably.
"And then me."
The nursery memory floods in completely now.
Me standing in that doorway.
Adrian behind me.
His hand reaching for mine.
And me pulling away.
"I ruin everything," I had whispered.
"I ruined him."
"You didn't," Adrian says firmly now.
"But you believed you did."
Tears spill freely down my face.
"I told you to leave me," I whisper.
"Yes."
"I said you deserved better."
"Yes."
"And when you refused…"
"You asked for the divorce."
The truth lands fully now.
I didn't leave him for Marcus.
I didn't leave him because he wasn't enough.
I left him because I thought I wasn't.
"I thought if you stayed with me, something else would die," I whisper.
His jaw tightens.
"I wasn't afraid of that."
"I was."
The room feels unbearably quiet.
"I didn't want to lose you too," I whisper.
"You didn't."
"I tried to."
"Yes."
The honesty is brutal.
"I punished you for surviving," I say brokenly.
"You were drowning."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No."
Silence lingers between us.
Heavy.
Raw.
"I said unforgivable things," I whisper.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you hate me?"
He looks at me like the answer is obvious.
"Because you weren't trying to hurt me."
"Then what was I doing?"
His voice lowers.
"You were trying to disappear."
The words hit so precisely that I physically flinch.
Disappear.
That's what it was.
Not anger.
Not betrayal.
Erasure.
"I wanted to be less," I whisper.
"You wanted the pain to be less."
My knees finally give out.
But before I hit the floor—
His arms catch me.
Instinct.
Strong.
Familiar.
I freeze in his hold.
He doesn't pull me closer.
Doesn't force comfort.
He just keeps me upright.
"I destroyed us," I whisper into the space between us.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
His voice is firm now.
"You were sick with grief."
"I was cruel."
"You were shattered."
"I told you I didn't love you anymore."
His body stills slightly.
"I remember."
The shame burns.
"I didn't mean it."
"I know."
"How?"
His hand tightens slightly at my back.
"Because you were crying when you said it."
The tears fall harder.
"And you still stayed."
"Yes."
"Why?"
His answer comes without hesitation.
"Because I knew one day you would remember who we were."
My breath stutters.
"And if I don't?"
He pauses.
Just slightly.
Then says quietly—
"Then I'll make you fall in love with me again."
My heart stops.
The words aren't arrogant.
They're not possessive.
They're a vow.
And suddenly—
I don't know which scares me more.
Remembering.
Or starting over.
---
Because for the first time since waking up-
I want to know what it felt like…
To love him.