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Kyra
She barely remembered driving home.
The world outside her car window blurred past. Stoplights, people, sunlight. None of it registered. Her hands were on the wheel. Her heart was in her throat.
As soon as she got inside her apartment, Kyra dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and sat on the floor right there in the entryway.
She was possibly pregnant.
With a stranger’s baby.
Not just any stranger. A man with a face. A name. A voice that sent heat down her spine, even while her head spun with panic.
Zaire Cruz.
He wasn’t what she imagined when she thought “donor.” He wasn’t anonymous. He wasn’t distant. He was real, solid, and infuriatingly calm about the whole thing.
And now, he was tangled in a moment she had crafted so carefully for herself.
Kyra had spent months preparing for this decision. Therapy. Research. Nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she could really do it alone. She finally said yes to motherhood on her terms.
And now?
Her terms were shattered.
She hugged her knees to her chest and whispered, “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
Zaire sat in the backseat of his blacked-out SUV, parked outside the clinic.
He hadn’t moved. Didn’t even tell his driver to go yet.
He just stared out the window, one arm resting across his lap, the other hand playing with the leather band of his watch, something he only did when his mind was storming.
He kept hearing her voice.
“Do I even want to know why your sperm was here?”
She wasn’t like what he expected, either.
Kyra was sharp. Beautiful in that grown-woman way that didn’t need effort. She had that mix of softness and fire he respected, and a mouth that didn’t sugarcoat anything. He liked that. Too much, considering the situation.
But she looked at him like he was a thief.
Like he stole something from her.
He couldn’t blame her.
He hadn’t wanted this either. His plan was to settle down when or if he was ready. Build a legacy. One day, not today.
Now, there was a possibility of a child out there. His child. A life he didn’t ask for but couldn’t un-claim either.
His mom always said, “Blood don’t ask for permission.”
And this?
This was blood.
He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed, voice low.
“Take me home,” he finally said to his driver.
He wasn’t ready to reach out.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
And if that pregnancy test turned positive, ready or not, he’d have to make a decision.
Kyra’s apartment felt too quiet. The hum of the city outside couldn’t drown out the loud, chaotic storm swirling inside her head.
Two weeks. That’s how long she had to wait.
Two weeks of not knowing.
She kept replaying the doctor’s words, Zaire’s face, the way he looked so calm but strained. She barely knew him. A man who’d never meant to be part of her story, whose sperm was never supposed to be used.
And yet, here they were.
She wasn’t ready to reach out. Not yet. Not when everything felt like a mess she wasn’t sure she could control.
Instead, she filled her days with distractions. Work deadlines, phone calls with her sister, binge-watching rom-coms with the volume low so she could think.
At night, the silence was worse.
Her mind zeroed in on every tiny feeling. Her stomach fluttering, a dull ache, a sudden rush of nausea that might have been nothing.
She checked her calendar obsessively, circling the date when she’d finally be able to take a pregnancy test. The moment that would change everything.
What if it’s positive? she wondered. What if I’m ready, or what if I’m not?
She wasn’t sure if she was scared or hopeful or some confusing mix of both.
She told no one. Not yet.
Because she didn’t know how to explain the impossible.
Zaire was back to his usual rhythm, but nothing felt usual anymore.
He spent hours staring out the window of his apartment, the city lights blurring as he wrestled with a storm of thoughts.
His frozen sperm, meant for a future he planned to build on his own timeline, had been used without his permission.
A stranger might be pregnant with his child.
And he didn’t even know her.
They were connected only by a mistake. A cold error in a sterile room.
Zaire hadn’t called her.
He hadn’t texted.
Not yet.
Instead, he kept his distance, even as the news settled in his bones.
Two weeks. The same waiting period.
But for him, the stakes felt impossibly higher.
Because unlike Kyra, he didn’t know if he wanted this to be real. Did he want to be a father to a child he hadn’t planned for? Did he want to be part of a life he hadn’t chosen?
The questions circled like vultures.
Zaire buried himself in work, late nights, and old music that reminded him of better days, days when the future was still a blank page.
He refused to imagine what came next.
Because if he did, there was no going back.
I’m still on the floor.
My knees are still at my chest.
The question I asked is still in the air.
“What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
I still don’t know.
But I’m here.
And that has to be enough for tonight.
- Writer
