Chapter Two

Sonia's POV. 

It had been three weeks since the night at the bar.

Three weeks since my life split open quietly, the way something precious breaks when no one is looking. Time hadn’t softened anything yet. If anything, it has worsen the situation. Every morning I woke up thinking I might feel different, lighter somehow, only to realize the weight was still there, settled deep in my chest, unmoving.

I left the bar two days after it happened.

I didn’t quit properly. I didn’t go back to collect my things or demand explanations. I just stopped showing up. The idea of walking through those doors again made my skin crawl, made my heart race in a way that felt dangerous. Bailey didn’t push me hard, she understands everything I'm going through. She helped me pack a bag, let me sleep on her couch, and pretended not to notice when I startled awake in the middle of the night, breathless and shaking.

At first, I blamed everything on stress.

That was the lie I clung to because it almost made sense.

Trauma did strange things to the body. I read that somewhere. It could steal your appetite, mess with your sleep, make you dizzy, nauseous, disconnected. So when the dizziness started brief at first, then more frequent, I told myself my body was just catching up with what my mind had already gone through.

Some mornings I woke up cold, shivering beneath blankets even when the air was warm. Other times, nausea rolled through me without warning, sharp and overwhelming, leaving me gripping the edge of the sink until it passed. Smells became enemies. Coffee. Fried food. Even Bailey’s laundry detergent made my stomach turn.

“It’s just stress,” I said whenever Bailey gave me that look. “Everything’s just… catching up to me.”

She didn’t argue. She just watched me the way people watch cracks in a wall, quietly, carefully, waiting to see if they’ll spread.

Denial lasted until the morning my legs gave out beneath me.

I stood up too quickly, the room spinning violently, my vision narrowing until all I could see was darkness creeping in from the edges. I sat down hard on the kitchen floor, my heart pounding like I’d run miles instead of crossed the room.

Bailey crouched beside me immediately. “That’s it,” she said gently but firmly. “You need to go to the hospital.”

I didn’t fight her this time.

The hospital felt unreal, like a place that existed outside of time. Everything smelled clean and sharp, like the air itself had been scrubbed of emotion. I sat in the examination room with my hands folded tightly in my lap, staring at a faded poster on the wall that listed early pregnancy symptoms.

I didn’t read it.

I couldn’t.

The doctor was kind in a way that made my chest ache. She asked questions softly, never pushing, never rushing. When she stepped out to run tests, the silence pressed in on me, thick and heavy.

I tried not to think.

I failed.

When she returned, she didn’t stand. She sat down across from me, her posture open, her voice calm.

“I want to be very clear,” she said. “The test is positive. You’re pregnant.”

The word echoed, hollow and unreal.

Pregnant.

The words felt new, my heartbeat suddenly increased and I feel like taking a short break from the world. 

I nodded automatically, like someone responding to directions, but my mind felt detached, floating somewhere above my body. Three weeks and everything changes. 

She explained options, timelines, support resources. Asked if I felt safe. Asked if there was someone I trusted. Her voice faded in and out as my thoughts spiraled inward.

All I could think about was the man.

Or rather, the absence of him.

I couldn’t remember his face. Not clearly. Just shadows. Sensations. The feeling of being present and absent at the same time. The terrifying certainty that my body remembered something my mind refused to reclaim.

When I left the hospital, the envelope in my hand felt heavier than it should have been. Proof. Confirmation of my pregnancy. 

The sunlight outside was blinding, almost cruel. Life went on around me, cars passing, people talking, laughter drifting through the air and I felt disconnected from all of it, like I was watching the world from behind glass.

I pressed a hand to my stomach without thinking.

Nothing had changed yet. No visible sign. No movement.

Just fear.

I started walking, letting my feet carry me without direction. My thoughts tangled and unraveled all at once, looping back to the same questions I couldn’t answer.

Who was he?

How could this happen?

What was I supposed to do now?

I was so lost in my head that I almost missed the sound, a sharp, desperate wheeze cutting through the noise of the street.

I turned.

An old woman sat in a wheelchair near the curb, her body hunched, her chest rising and falling too quickly. Panic was etched into every line of her face. On the ground near her foot lay an inhaler, just beyond her reach.

People walked past her.

I didn’t hesitate.

I dropped my bag and rushed forward, kneeling in front of her as I picked up the inhaler. “It’s okay,” I said softly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through me. “I’ve got you.”

Her hands shook violently as I placed it in her palm. I guided her hand, helping her bring it to her mouth.

“Slow,” I murmured. “Breathe with me. In… out.”

She gasped, then inhaled. Again. Again.

I stayed with her, one hand firm on her arm, grounding her the way I wished someone had grounded me weeks ago. Gradually, her breathing eased. The panic drained from her eyes, replaced by exhaustion and relief.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Thank you, my dear.”

Footsteps rushed toward us.

“Grandma!”

A young man dropped to his knees beside her, fear written plainly across his face. He checked her breathing, her pulse, his movements practiced but trembling.

“I just went inside for a second,” he said, guilt heavy in his voice. “Just one second...”

“She helped me,” the old woman said, squeezing his hand. 

His gaze lifted to me then, full of gratitude. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t been here.”

I shook my head. “She needed help.”

The old woman studied me closely, her sharp eyes lingering on my face. “You are kind,” she said simply. “That is rare these days.”

“My name is Sonia,” I offered.

She smiled. “I am Margaret. And this is my grandson, Clinton.”

Clinton gave a small smile, still shaken.

Margaret held my hand as she thanked me repeatedly, all the way to the hospital doors, as if she were afraid letting go might break whatever fragile moment we were sharing.

“Take care of yourself,” she said finally. “The world is not gentle with good people.”

I watched them leave, Clinton glancing back once before they disappeared into the crowd.

Only then did the weight return.

When I got home, Bailey was waiting.

She looked up immediately. “Sonia?”

The single word undid me.

The envelope slipped from my hand as my knees gave out, my body folding in on itself as the truth tore through me.

“I’m pregnant,” I sobbed.

Bailey caught me, holding me tightly as if she could keep me from falling apart. Then she cried too, deep, broken sobs that matched my own.

We stayed like that on the floor, clinging to each other, hating fate for being so cruel, so careless with people who had already suffered enough.

“It’s not fair,” Bailey whispered. “None of this is fair.”

“I don’t remember him,” I cried. “I don’t even know who he is.”

Bailey pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes red but fierce. “You’re not alone,” she said firmly. “Whatever comes next, we face it together.”

I nodded, holding onto her like she was the only solid thing left in a world that had shifted beneath my feet.

But who is the father of my baby?