CHAPTER TWO
716 Words
Amara’s POV
The flight home is quiet.
Too quiet.
Amara sits by the window, chin resting in her hand, the clouds drifting beneath her like soft white lies. She has replayed the night in her mind a hundred times since she left the hotel room.
Every detail feels too sharp, too vivid:
His hands. His mouth.
The way he looked at her, not like a stranger, but like he could see right through her.
She should forget it.
She promised herself she would.
One night.
No names.
No future.
Yet her thoughts refuse to loosen their grip.
She closes her eyes, but the memory of his scent clings to her. She should feel embarrassed, or guilty, or angry at herself for being reckless. But what she feels is… confused.
Confused by how safe she felt in the arms of a man she knew nothing about.
Confused by how the warmth of him hasn’t faded.
Confused by the ache of waking up alone, even though that was the deal.
The plane lands.
Reality returns.
And so does the silence.
By the time she reaches her apartment, a familiar heaviness settles over her shoulders. Her home, usually a refuge, feels strangely empty. The life she has pieced together with careful hands suddenly feels fragile.
Her phone buzzes the moment she drops her bags.
We need to talk. Please, Amara. Don’t shut me out.
Her ex.
The reason she ended up at that hotel bar in the first place. The reason she needed to forget.
She blocks the number.
This time, permanently.
She takes a long shower, letting the hot water wash away the exhaustion, the regret, and the lingering traces of him on her skin.
But when she steps out, nothing feels washed away.
Still, life doesn’t pause for heartbreak or for mistakes. She goes to work the next morning, forces smiles, answers questions, and pretends everything is normal.
But her body feels off.
She’s tired.
Dizzy.
Unusually sensitive to smells.
She blames stress.
She blames the lack of sleep.
She blames everything except the truth she refuses to consider.
Not yet.
A week later, she’s late.
Her heart stutters as she stands in the bathroom, staring at the tiny calendar app on her phone. She knows her cycle. She knows her body.
And she knows what this means.
“No,” she whispers. “No, no, no.”
Her hands tremble as she tears open the test.
She doesn’t even breathe as the minutes crawl by.
When the result appears, everything in her stops.
Two lines.
Clear. Dark. Undeniable.
“Oh God.”
She sits on the edge of the bathtub, the world tilting around her.
A baby.
She’s pregnant.
Pregnant by a man whose name she doesn’t know.
A man whose face still haunts her dreams.
A man who doesn’t even know she exists, much less what they created.
Tears sting her eyes, but they don’t fall.
Emotion floods her, fear first.
Then panic.
Then something softer, quieter, so fragile she can barely acknowledge it:
Hope.
She places a hand on her flat stomach, barely daring to breathe.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispers. “This wasn’t the plan.”
But the second she says it, she knows, deep in her chest, that she already cares. Already feels something fierce and protective forming inside her.
She wipes her eyes, straightens her shoulders, and inhales shakily.
She will not fall apart.
Not again.
Not because of a man.
Not because of fate.
“This is my child,” she says aloud, voice steadying. “And I’ll raise them on my own.”
A knock echoes at the door, startling her. She jumps, heart pounding.
She isn’t expecting anyone.
When she opens the door, it’s just her neighbor, returning a package mistakenly delivered to him. She forces a smile, accepts it, shuts the door.
Her pulse takes minutes to settle.
Because for a single terrifying heartbeat, she thought—
What if it was him?
Ridiculous. Impossible.
He doesn’t know she exists.
He doesn’t know what they created.
And he never will.
She places the test in the drawer, closes it carefully, and leans against the counter.
She’s carrying the child of a man she’ll never see again.
At least…
That’s what she believes.
For now.
- Writer
