Processing

Kyra’s pov-

I barely remembered driving home.

The world outside my car window blurred past. Stoplights, people, sunlight. None of it registered. My hands were tight on the wheel, and my heart was lodged firmly in my throat.

As soon as I got inside my apartment, I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and slid down to the floor right there in the entryway.

I was possibly pregnant.

With a stranger’s baby.

Except he wasn't just any stranger. He had a face. A name. A low, smooth voice that sent a sudden wave of heat down my spine, even while my head spun with sheer panic.

Zaire Cruz.

He wasn’t what I had imagined when I chose the word donor. He wasn’t anonymous, and he certainly wasn’t distant. He was real, solid, and infuriatingly calm about the entire nightmare. And now, he was tangled up in a moment I had crafted so carefully for myself.

I had spent months preparing for this decision. There were endless therapy sessions, late-night research, and hours spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if I could really handle motherhood alone. I had finally said yes to it, but on my terms.

And now? My terms were completely shattered.

I hugged my knees tightly to my chest and whispered to the empty room, "What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

My mind raced back to the clinic, replaying the moments before I rushed out. I could still picture Zaire sitting there, looking entirely grounded despite the chaos. He had been playing with the leather band of his watch, a tense, restless habit that told me his mind was storming beneath that calm exterior.

I could still hear my own voice cutting through the sterile room, demanding to know why his sperm was even there.

He hadn't expected me either. I had seen it in his eyes. I had stood my ground, matching his intensity with my own brand of fire, but I knew I had looked at him like he was a thief. Like he had stolen the future I planned. I couldn't help it, even if a part of me respected the quiet strength he carried. He seemed like a man who cared deeply about legacy, a man whose mother had taught him that blood does not ask for permission.

Now, his blood might be growing inside me. A life neither of us asked for, but one he wouldn't be able to just un-claim.

My apartment felt entirely too quiet. The usual hum of the city outside could not drown out the loud, chaotic storm swirling inside my head.

Two weeks. That was how long I had to wait. Two weeks of an agonizing unknown.

I kept replaying the doctor’s words, Zaire’s face, and the strained tension between us. I barely knew him. He was a man who was never meant to be part of my story, a man whose genetic material was never supposed to be released. Yet, here we were, bound by a cold error in a laboratory.

I wasn't ready to reach out to him. Not yet. Not when everything felt like a beautiful mess I had no control over.

Instead, I filled my days with endless distractions. I buried myself in work deadlines, exhausted myself with long phone calls with my sister, and binge-watched rom-coms with the volume turned down low just so I could think.

At night, the silence grew heavier.

My mind zeroed in on every tiny physical sensation. A flutter in my stomach, a dull ache, or a sudden rush of nausea that might have just been nerves. I checked my calendar obsessively, circling the exact date when I could finally take a test. It was the moment that would change absolutely everything.

What if it is positive? I wondered constantly. What if I am ready, or what if I am completely terrified? I was trapped in a confusing mix of fear and hope.

I told no one. I didn't know how to explain the impossible.

I wondered if Zaire was doing the same thing right now, somewhere out there in the city. Was he staring out the window of some high-rise apartment, watching the city lights blur while he wrestled with the same reality? Was he burying himself in late nights and work to avoid the questions circling him like vultures?

Unlike me, he hadn't chosen to start a family right now. He was facing a potential child he hadn't planned for, a connection to a woman he didn't know. He hadn't called or texted, keeping his distance just like I was. We were both waiting for the exact same clock to run down.

I am still on the entryway floor.

My knees are still pulled tight against my chest.

The question I whispered earlier is still hanging heavily in the air.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

I still don’t have an answer. But I am here, breathing, and that has to be enough for tonight.