Chapter 13
1810 Words
I carefully buried the test at the very bottom of the bathroom trash can, tucking it beneath a crumpled mound of tissue, a half-empty pack of makeup wipes, and a tangled mess of excuses that I wasn’t emotionally prepared to unravel just yet.
Then I turned and walked out the door, heading to work.
It was a familiar coping mechanism: when feelings became too heavy to bear, I threw myself into my job. I became an architect of distraction—building projects, leading teams, and crafting an impenetrable wall around my emotions to become untouchable.
For a few fleeting hours, the veneer held.
—
The day slipped away as a blur of back-to-back meetings rolled into one another. Faces came and went, discussions faded into the background, and I found myself approving campaign visuals with a strange detachment, rewriting two dense sponsorship proposals without a second thought, and easily signing off on the venue details for next month’s highly anticipated scholarship gala. My body was on autopilot, barely pausing in a chair or blinking between tasks.
“Z, you good?” Blaire’s voice cut through the haze, her eyes narrowed as she observed me over her half-empty plate. I was already pushing through my second espresso, the bitter taste sharper on my tongue without the comfort of food to dull it.
“Fine,” I replied curtly, biting back the frustration.
“You haven’t eaten all day,” she pointed out, her tone layered with concern.
“Not hungry,” I shot back, though my stomach grumbled in protest.
“Since when did you stop being hungry?” she pressed, leaning in as though she could physically draw the truth from me.
I shot her a look, one that usually ended these kinds of pesky conversations.
But this time, it fell flat.
“You’re pale,” she observed, her careful scrutiny making my insides churn. “And what’s with you being oddly nice to the interns? That’s how I know something’s off.”
“I’m fine,” I stated once more, my voice more clipped than before, edging towards defensive.
She raised her hands in mock surrender but remained seated, arms crossed over her legs, chewing her lip nervously as though she were holding a mirror up to my turmoil—a reflection I hadn’t consented to show.
I hated it.
Because if Blaire was paying such close attention, I couldn’t shake the nagging fear that someone else might be, too.
Someone like Rafael.
—
And I couldn’t afford that vulnerability.
So when his text pinged on my phone, asking if I wanted to grab dinner that evening, I hastily crafted my response:
Can’t. Meeting ran late. Raincheck?
His reply was quick: a thumbs-up emoji. No follow-up questions, no probing inquiry.
But even through the digital barrier, I could feel it—he sensed something wasn’t quite right beneath my words.
And I loathed the thought of deceiving him.
I resented that this secret, this weight I carried, was already erecting an invisible wall between us, brick by heavy brick.
But revealing it felt like plunging into an abyss, letting go of everything I clung to, and I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
—
That evening, long after the office had emptied and silence settled around me, I remained hunched over my desk in the dim light, enveloped by the dark shadows of the room. Documents lay sprawled across the table, a chaotic testament to the work I had chosen to focus on, my fingers hovering above the keyboard, frozen, unmoving.
Outside, the city buzzed with life, car horns blaring, the distant laughter of people spilling out into the streets, but I felt detached from it all.
My body was bone-weary, each muscle aching from the strain, yet my mind was a storm of thoughts and emotions swirling louder, demanding attention.
And deep within my chest, something stirred.
A flutter.
Small.
Alive.
Unforgiving.
Then I went to work.
Because that’s what I do when I can’t feel anything—I build. I lead. I become untouchable.
And for a few hours, it worked.
—
Meetings blurred.
I approved campaign visuals, rewrote two sponsorship proposals, and signed off on the venue for next month’s scholarship gala. I barely sat down. I barely blinked.
“Z, you good?” Blaire asked, watching me push through my second espresso without touching food.
“Fine.”
“You haven’t eaten.”
“Not hungry.”
“Since when?”
I gave her a look that usually ended conversations.
This time, it didn’t.
“You’re pale,” she added. “And weirdly nice to the interns. That’s how I know something’s off.”
“I’m fine,” I said again, sharper.
She raised her hands in surrender but didn’t leave. She just sat across from me, chewing her lip and watching like a mirror I didn’t ask for.
I hated it.
Because if Blaire was watching closely, someone else might be, too.
Someone like Rafael.
—
And I couldn’t afford that.
So when he texted asking if I wanted dinner that night, I replied fast:
Can’t. Meeting ran late. Raincheck?
He sent a thumbs-up.
No follow-up.
But even through the screen, I could feel it—he knew something was off.
And I hated lying to him.
I hated that this secret was already becoming a wall between us.
But telling him felt like letting go of the last bit of control I had.
And I wasn’t ready.
Not yet.
—
That evening, I stayed at the office long after everyone had left.
I sat at my desk in the dark, documents open, fingers still on the keyboard but not moving.
The city buzzed outside.
My body was tired.
But my mind was louder.
And deep in my chest, something fluttered.
Small.
Alive.
Unforgiving.
I didn’t expect him to show up.
But Rafael had never been good at staying away when I started to unravel—even if I was trying to come apart in private.
I heard his knock around 10 p.m., soft but firm, echoing through the executive floor of Villarosa Tower.
I didn’t answer at first.
Then came the second knock—this time, his voice came with it.
“Zyra, I know you’re still here.”
I swallowed hard. The lights were off, and the city behind me glowed like a million witnesses, yet I didn’t move.
Eventually, though, I opened the door.
He looked at me for a long moment. No words; just a scan of my face, the tension in my shoulders, the exhaustion I couldn’t hide anymore.
“You’ve been dodging me.”
“I’ve been working.”
He didn’t buy it.
“I texted. Called.”
“I know.”
“Z, what’s going on?”
I turned away and walked back into the room.
“You don’t have to fix me,” I said. “I’m not broken.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he replied, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “But you’re bleeding somewhere, and you’ve been pretending not to notice.”
His words hit harder than I wanted them to.
I sat at the edge of the long meeting table, gripping the edge as if it might ground me.
“I’m just tired.”
“Since when do you lie so badly?”
I finally looked at him.
For a second, I thought about telling him everything.
The two pink lines.
The way my body had shifted.
The slow, terrifying realization that I wasn’t in this alone anymore.
But instead, I said, “It’s just the pressure.”
He nodded once, slowly.
But his eyes…
His eyes expressed what he didn’t say.
Or worse—that he already knew.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked gently.
I opened my mouth.
Paused.
Then lied.
“No.”
A silence stretched between us.
But it wasn’t the calm kind.
It was the kind that builds before a storm breaks.
He didn’t push.
He just said, “I’m here whenever you’re ready to let me in.”
And then he left.
No anger, just… sadness.
And I realized something terrifying:
Maybe I wasn’t protecting him by staying quiet.
Maybe I was pushing him away.
And if I waited too long…
There might be nothing left to say when I was finally ready.
But Rafael had never been good at staying away when I started unraveling—even if I was trying to come apart in private.
I heard his knock around 10 p.m., soft but firm, echoing through the Villarosa Tower’s executive floor.
I didn’t answer at first.
But then came the second knock—this time, his voice behind it.
“Zyra, I know you’re still here.”
I swallowed hard. The lights were off, the city behind me glowing like a million witnesses, and I didn’t move.
But eventually, I opened the door.
He looked at me for a long second. No words. Just a scan of my face, the tension in my shoulders, the exhaustion I couldn’t hide anymore.
“You’ve been dodging me.”
“I’ve been working.”
He didn’t buy it.
“I texted. Called.”
“I know.”
“Z, what’s going on?”
I turned away, walking back into the room.
“You don’t have to fix me,” I said. “I’m not broken.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he replied, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “But you’re bleeding somewhere. And you’ve been pretending not to notice.”
The words hit harder than I wanted them to.
I sat at the edge of the long meeting table, gripping the edge like it might ground me.
“I’m just tired.”
“Since when do you lie that badly?”
I finally looked at him.
And for a second, I thought about telling him everything.
The two pink lines.
The way my body had shifted.
The slow, terrifying realization that I wasn’t in this alone anymore.
But instead, I said, “It’s just the pressure.”
He nodded once, slowly.
But his eyes…
His eyes said he didn’t believe me.
Or worse—
That he already knew.
—
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked, gently.
I opened my mouth.
Paused.
Then lied.
“No.”
A silence stretched between us.
But not the calm kind.
The kind that builds before a storm breaks.
He didn’t push.
Just said, “I’m here. Whenever you’re ready to let me in.”
And then he left.
No anger.
Just… sadness.
And I realized something terrifying:
Maybe I wasn’t protecting him by staying quiet.
Maybe I was pushing him away.
And if I waited too long…
There might be nothing left to say when I was finally ready.
- Writer
