LOGINBéatriceShe settles in. She takes out her pen. She asks my name, my date of birth, my address, my general practitioner. I answer mechanically, my mind elsewhere, my mind with him, with what he was going to say, with what he didn't say.The nurse finishes her questionnaire. She puts a bracelet on my wrist. She is kind, efficient. She explains that we'll go up to a room, that someone will come get me in a few minutes.When she leaves, we are alone again. But the moment has passed. The instant is broken. Lorenzo says nothing. He waits."What were you going to say?" I ask."Nothing. It's not the time. Not here. Not now.""Lorenzo...""Later. I promise. Later."I want to insist but a contraction comes. Less strong than the previous ones, but present. I close my eyes. I breathe. When I open them again, he is there, very close, his hand on my arm."Are you okay?"
BéatriceHis thumb traces a path on my cheekbone. It's so soft, so tender, so dangerous. I should turn my head away. I should say something. I should stop this. But I can't. I can't because I want it too much. Because I need it. Because for too long I've been depriving myself of tenderness, of contact, of him.The door opens. He withdraws his hand. Doctor Vasseur comes back with a paper in her hand. My face is on fire. My heart is beating too fast. I hope she doesn't see anything, doesn't guess anything."So," she says, sitting on a rolling chair facing me. "Here's the situation. You had a strong warning. The cervix is changed compared to the last ultrasound. It's shorter, softer. But it's not open. That's the positive point. The babies are not being born right now."I sigh. A weight lifts. Lorenzo squeezes my hand tighter."However," the doctor continues, "it's a very clear alarm signal. Your body is telling
BéatriceThe car stops in front of the maternity emergency room. Lorenzo cuts the engine and turns to me. His look is intense, worried, determined."I'm going to get a wheelchair. Don't move.""I don't think I can move anyway."He gets out and runs. I stay alone in the car, still short of breath, hands resting on my belly. The babies are moving. They are moving a lot. As if they are agitated too, as if they sense that something is wrong.The door opens. Lorenzo is already there with a wheelchair, already undoing my seatbelt, already sliding his arms under my knees and behind my back."I'm lifting you. Ready?""Ready."He carries me to the wheelchair with that same ease that troubles me so much. His arms are firm around me, his chest against my shoulder, his breath in my hair. He settles me delicately, with gestures so tender it squeezes my heart. He pushes the wheelchair toward
.BéatriceI stay curled up, short of breath, heart pounding, thoughts confused."How was it?" he asks."Strong," I say. "Really strong. Stronger than the others.""We're going to the hospital.""No, I...""Béa. Listen to me. I'm taking you to the hospital. It's not negotiable. It's not an option. It's what we're going to do. Now."He stands up. He looks at me."Can you walk?""I don't know. I'll try."I sit on the edge of the bed. I put my feet on the floor. I stand up slowly, leaning on the nightstand.And then, another contraction.Immediate.Violent.I sit back down abruptly, my legs giving way, my breath cut off, everything cut off."No," I say. "No, I can't. I can't walk. It's coming back. It won't stop.""I'll carry you.""Lorenzo...""I'll carry you to the car. I'll b
He pushes my bedroom door open with his foot, approaches the bed, lays me down on it with a gentleness that squeezes my heart, that squeezes something else too, that awakens sensations I shouldn't have, not for him, not now, not like this."Thank you," I say, adjusting my pillow behind my head, trying to find a position where the contraction is less present, less oppressive."I'm staying," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed."You shouldn't stay, you should go back down, Aurélie is all alone downstairs, she must be wondering what's happening, she must...""She knows what's happening. She knows I'm with you. She knows I'm watching over you. She understands.""Understands what?"He looks at me. Really. His blue eyes, so blue, incredibly blue, plunged into mine, and I feel my heart racing, beating much too fast, beating for the wrong reasons, for reasons I shouldn't have."She understands that I am the father of your children," he says softly. "That I have responsibilities. That I ca
BéatriceI feel the children move at the same time, a kind of synchronized wave that starts in my lower belly and rises up to my ribs, and I place my hand on my stomach without even thinking, by reflex, as if I could calm them from the outside, tell them everything's fine, stay quiet a little longer, but they do as they please obviously, they are like their father, they only listen to what they want to hear."Are you okay?" asks Lorenzo.He has that worried look he's had for the past few minutes, that look that scrutinizes my slightest movement, my slightest expression, as if he's expecting something to go wrong at any moment, and I know it's because he's the father, because he feels responsible for me and the babies in a way that perhaps goes beyond what is reasonable."Yes, yes," I answer, taking a sip of the coffee I made decaf after Aurélie's comment yesterday about caffeine and fetal development, "I'm perfectly fine.""Are you sure? Because you made a weird face just now, right w
DianeThe day stretches, syrupy and thick. One hour seems to flow into the next without ever really passing.The shower water caresses my skin without cleansing it. Too hot, it burns. Too cold, it freezes. Neither manages to penetrate this internal cold, to erase the m
DianeThe door against my back is cold, a solid reality through the fine silk of my dress. But this coldness fails to extinguish the fire he lit. It smolders beneath my skin, a sly ember fed by the wine, the chosen words, that furtive touch on my hair. A shiver I didn't summo
DianeThe black dress. It hangs in the closet, alone among the other muted-colored outfits. Simple, in silk crepe, cut with a severity that speaks volumes about the taste of the one who chose it. Long sleeves, a boat neck that glides over the shoulders, falling straight to mi
DianeThe change in air pressure, the cold draft on the steam, even before the sound of the door. My eyes open.He is there, in the frame. A dark silhouette breaking the field of white steam. He says nothing. He watches.My whole body freezes, then, paradoxicall







