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Liv
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I wake up to the harsh, sterile light of the hospital room, disoriented and groggy. My hands instinctively shoot to my stomach, a sudden surge of panic flooding my senses as I struggle to recall what happened.
It's a jumbled mess, fragments of memories flashing before my eyes, but one thing stands out—the pain, which is excruciating and unbearable.
As I try to piece it all together, a doctor enters the room with a hint of sympathy in his eyes. He greets me and introduces himself before telling me I had a miscarriage, and the words hit me like a sledgehammer.
I had no idea I was pregnant. My mind races, trying to figure out when it happened and whose baby it was. The doctor gives me an idea of how far along I was, and it hits me that I don't know whose baby it was
