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It’s vague enough to be nothing.
It’s also pointed enough to mean everything.
I pace around the apartment, mentally scrolling through all the possible explanations. A prank? A wrong email? A spammy phishing attempt?
But deep down, I know.
This wasn’t random.
I think about texting Damien. My thumb hovers over Roman’s number—still saved from that business card Damien slipped me weeks ago.
And then I put my phone down.
If I contact him, he’ll show up. And I can’t handle that. Not now. Not when I’m barely holding myself together.
Ryan shows up at my apartment the next afternoon like he’s starring in some low-budget rom-com. He even brings Thai food and says something annoyingly sweet like, “You seem like someone who needs extra noodles.”
I should tell him to leave. But he’s been texting me for the last few weeks, and talking to him actually makes me feel better. He wants to be just friends, and I believe him.
I really need friends right now.
I eat two spring rolls and sit next to him on the couch like I’m not actively unraveling.
He talks about work—how soul-sucking his new department is, how the coffee tastes like burnt sadness—and I laugh. I laugh because for ten minutes, I forget the creepy email and the mess I’ve made of my life.
And that’s when I say it.
“I’m pregnant.”
It drops out of my mouth like a brick.
He freezes, pad thai halfway to his mouth.
“Oh,” he says after a second. “Wow. Okay. That’s…congratulations?”
“I guess.”
His expression shifts. “Does he know?”
“Who?”
“Damien,” he says, like I don’t need to pretend.
“No.” I shake my head. “And I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
He nods slowly. “That’s your choice.”
“I mean it, Ryan. Don’t tell him.”
“I won’t,” he says, his voice soft and even. “Of course I won’t.”
* * *
A week later,I get an email from my old supervisor at Zaitsev Industries.
Hey Sasha,
Could you swing by the office sometime this week to complete your relieving paperwork? Should only take a few minutes.