Chapter Eighteen: When Everything Was Taken
1065 Words
She made it through the door.
That was the most she could say for herself — that she got the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and made it inside before her legs finally gave up.
Her bag hit the floor somewhere behind her. She didn't care where.
Her back met the door as it closed.
And she stayed there.
Just stayed.
Letting the wall hold her while everything she had been holding together since the clinic finally collapsed.
Not gradually. Not gently. All at once.
The sobs came from somewhere deep inside her — somewhere she hadn't known was still full. Her shoulders shook violently. Her hands covered her face as if she could stop it from spilling out.
But she couldn't.
There was too much. Too many days of holding too much. And today had simply broken the last part of her that was still pretending.
"I can't do this—" Her voice cracked. "I can't—"
Her mother was gone. Her past had found her again. And she was carrying a life she never planned, in a body that betrayed her with every wave of dizziness, every quiet reminder she couldn't ignore anymore.
And she was on the floor again. Like always. Like everything kept returning her here.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't move.
It buzzed again. And again. Persistent. Unforgiving.
Finally, she reached for it with unsteady fingers.
A message from her supervisor.
She read it once. Then again, slower. As if reading it differently might change it.
Due to your recent absence, your employment has been terminated. Please return your uniform by the end of the week.
Her hand dropped. The phone slipped from her fingers.
She sat in silence for a moment. The kind of silence that comes after the final blow — when your mind hasn't yet decided how to respond.
Then she laughed.
It wasn't real. It had no warmth in it. Just something broken and empty that escaped before she could stop it.
"Of course," she whispered.
Her eyes filled again immediately.
"Of course."
Because that was how it worked. Not one thing at a time. Not with mercy. Not with space to breathe. Just everything. All at once.
Her mother. Her past. The clinic. Now her job — the only stability she had built for herself — gone in a message because life had not paused for her grief.
She curled inward, arms around herself, trying to hold what was left of her together.
No job. No mother. No—
Her hand moved before she even thought about it.
It rested on her stomach.
And she stopped. Mid-thought. Mid-breath. Mid-collapse.
Silence filled the room.
"Not no one," she whispered.
Her voice trembled. But it didn't break.
Her fingers stayed there — not accidental anymore, not uncertain. Deliberate. Present. Real.
Fresh tears slipped down her face, quieter this time.
"I don't even know how to take care of myself," she whispered. Her voice cracked slightly. "How am I supposed to take care of you?"
The question stayed in the air. And she didn't answer it.
Her eyes drifted to the uniform folded neatly on the chair across the room. Pressed. Clean. A reminder of the only life she had managed to hold onto for so long.
She had shown up. Worked. Survived. Invisible in rooms full of people who never truly saw her.
And now it was just fabric on a chair.
The thought came quietly: Go back. Apologise. Ask for your job back. Fix it.
She felt it rise inside her — that old instinct. To shrink. To beg. To make herself small enough to be accepted again.
Her jaw tightened.
"No."
Low. But firm.
"I won't beg."
A pause. Then softer, but stronger —
"They took enough from me already."
She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Hard. Not gentle. Just enough to see clearly.
Her breathing steadied slowly — not because anything was fixed, but because her body refused to stay in collapse forever.
She straightened her spine. Just a little. Enough.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," she said.
Her hand stayed on her stomach.
"But I'll figure it out."
The room remained quiet. But something had changed inside it. Something small. Something fragile. Something beginning.
Not hope. Not yet. Something closer to decision.
A thought surfaced. Quiet at first. Then sharper.
Damien.
She closed her eyes briefly. Her fingers tightened slightly against her stomach.
He didn't know. He didn't even truly know her. Just fragments — a night, a transaction, a moment already buried in his world.
But this — this wasn't something she could ignore.
Her breath came slower now. Measured. Heavy.
"I have to tell him…" she whispered.
The words felt strange. Unreal. But true.
Fear followed immediately. What would she even say? How do you tell a man like Damien Blackwood something like this?
Her chest tightened again. What if he didn't believe her? What if he looked at her the way he had before — like she was nothing important enough to remember?
Her jaw tightened.
No.
She wouldn't beg. Not for him either.
But still — this wasn't something she could hide forever.
Her hand pressed slightly against her stomach.
He didn't know. He didn't even truly know her. Just fragments — a night, a transaction, a moment already buried in his world.
But this — this wasn't something she could ignore.
Her breath came slower now. Measured. Heavy.
"I have to tell him…" she whispered.
The words felt strange. Unreal. But true.
Fear followed immediately. What would she even say? How do you tell a man like Damien Blackwood something like this?
Her chest tightened again. What if he didn't believe her? What if he looked at her the way he had before — like she was nothing important enough to remember?
Her jaw tightened.
No.
She wouldn't beg. Not for him either.
But still — this wasn't something she could hide forever.
Her hand pressed slightly firmer against her stomach.
"I'll tell him," she said again. Quieter. But steadier.
And even as she said it — she knew.
Nothing about that conversation would be simple. Nothing about it would leave her life the same.
She rose slowly. Not healed. Not ready. But standing.
And this time — when she stood — she didn't fall again.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD