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M y body shakes as I shiver against the cold tile floors of my bathroom.

I knew this would happen again, but somehow, I kept hoping it would be different this time.

“When am I going to quit putting myself through this?” I mumble to myself between sobs. “If it hasn’t happened by now,” I choke out, “it’s probably not going to.”

More tears fall, leaving hot streaks down my cheeks. I struggle to get air into my lungs, and thick saliva clogs my throat. The salty liquid burns my eyes and chapped lips.

I clutch the piece of plastic like a lifeline, knowing that it won’t change anything but also hoping and praying that it will. That it just needs one more minute.

When I look down at it, nothing’s changed.

I feel the fissure, ever present in my heart, crack wider with every passing second as denial starts to clear and realization settles in.

The single line hasn’t magically been joined by a second one, which can only mean one thing.

I’m still not pregnant.

“Maybe I’m not cut out to be a mother,” I whisper, my voice shaking.

“Don’t you dare say that!” Vea’s voice booms behind me as she slams the door shut before sliding to join me on the ground.

Her warm arms wrap tightly around my upper torso as she rests her head on my shoulder. “This has nothing to do with how you’ll be as a mother and everything to do with a hormonal imbalance that you have no control over. So stop blaming yourself. Please ," she pleads quietly.

Her warmth seeps into my frozen body, but I’m not sure that anything could truly defrost the ice-cold block that’s taken root in my chest as I stare at the pile of negative pregnancy tests littering my bathroom floor.