Medora
It’s strange to think that the last time Clyde and I were together, I was already carrying his child—completely unaware. I’d stupidly trusted the pills to work, never imagining this would be the result. A month has passed since he vanished. A month since he decided I wasn’t worth an explanation, a call, or even a single text. He was gone. Just… gone.
I know it’s foolish, but I’ve been replaying Clyde’s old voicemails on a loop, as if hearing his voice could somehow make him real again. Each replay is like a balm to the ache in my chest, yet it also deepens the wound. Because no matter how familiar his voice feels, it doesn’t change the fact that the father of my child knows nothing about him or her—and likely never will.
The phone rang, interrupting the voicemail I was listening
