The morning came slow and gray, pressing against the thin curtains of Aria’s small apartment. The air smelled faintly of coffee grounds and rain — a scent that had begun to feel like her life now. Quiet. Tired. Trying.
She had been awake long before her alarm. The nausea had come early, as it always did, rolling through her in uneven waves until she was forced to sit on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed against the cool tile. Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the sink, breathing through the ache until it passed.
She stared at her reflection. Pale skin. Dark circles. Eyes that looked older than her twenty-something years.
She pressed a hand over her stomach — still flat, still secret. “We’re okay,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.
Her shi
