003:

Lily's POV

Two weeks later.

A loud banging on the door jolted me from sleep.

I sat up quickly, my heart pounding, my eyes struggling to adjust to the low light filtering through the curtains. The pounding continued, sharp and relentless.

“Lily!” a deep voice boomed. “Open this door right now!”

My landlord.

Panic shot through me. I scrambled off the couch, my legs unsteady. The coffee table was littered with empty takeout containers, crumpled napkins, and half-empty cups. The air in the apartment was stale, thick with the scent of leftover food and something sour I didn’t want to identify.

I rushed to the door, fumbling with the lock before yanking it open.

My landlord, Mr. Harris, stood on the other side, his thick arms crossed over his chest, his expression tight with irritation. He was a large man in his late fifties, his face weathered from years of dealing with tenants like me…tenants who owed him money.

“You’re two weeks late on rent,” he said, his voice edged with impatience. “I’ve been more than patient, Lily. Either you pay up, or you’re out.”

I swallowed hard, gripping the doorframe to keep myself steady. “Please, Mr. Harris,” I said, my voice hoarse from disuse. “I just need a little more time. Just a few days, I swear…”

“I’ve already given you extra time,” he cut in, his brows pulling together. “I run a business, not a charity. I don’t get my money, you don’t get a place to live. Simple as that.”

Desperation clawed at my throat. “I’ll get the money, I promise. Just give me until the end of the week…”

He shook his head. “I need that payment by tomorrow, or I’m changing the locks. And if I have to throw your things out myself, I won’t hesitate.”

Tears burned my eyes, but I blinked them back, forcing myself to nod.

Mr. Harris studied me for a moment, then let out a frustrated sigh. “Tomorrow,” he repeated firmly. Then he turned and walked down the hall, his heavy footsteps fading into the distance.

I closed the door, resting my back against it as the weight of everything pressed down on me.

The apartment was a disaster. Clothes were piled in the corner, dishes sat unwashed in the sink, the trash overflowed. I had barely moved from the couch in days, only getting up to order food or drag myself to the bathroom. The curtains remained drawn, keeping the room in a dull, lifeless haze.

Now, I was out of money. And soon, I’d be out of a place to live.

My stomach churned violently. A wave of nausea rolled over me, sudden and overwhelming.

I stumbled toward the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink just as my stomach lurched. I barely had time to take a breath before I was heaving, emptying what little was in my stomach.

The bitter taste burned my throat, but I barely noticed. I gripped the sink tighter, my body trembling.

Everything was falling apart.

…

I barely made it to the couch before another wave of nausea hit me. My stomach twisted violently, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut as I waited for the sensation to pass. My entire body felt drained, my head pounding from exhaustion. Every muscle ached, and a deep heaviness sat in my chest like a weight I couldn’t shake.

This wasn’t normal.

For days, I had barely eaten, barely slept. My appetite was gone, and every attempt to force food down only made me feel worse. My body was shutting down on me. I could feel it.

By the time I forced myself to get dressed and step outside, the world felt too bright, too loud. The sun made my head throb, and the constant noise of the city rang in my ears like a relentless drum. Every step toward the hospital felt heavier than the last, but I had no choice. If I didn’t do something, I’d collapse.

The waiting room was cold. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made you feel even more out of place. I sat hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around myself, staring at the scuffed tiles. People moved around me, their conversations blending into a dull hum, but I couldn’t focus on any of it.

The nurse called my name, and I forced myself to stand. My legs wobbled slightly, and for a second, I thought they might give out. I swallowed hard, straightened my shoulders, and followed her inside.

The doctor was a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and a kind voice. She looked over my chart, then at me, her expression neutral but assessing.

“You’ve been experiencing nausea, fatigue, dizziness?” she asked, her voice gentle.

I nodded, rubbing my hands together, suddenly aware of how clammy they were.

She tilted her head slightly. “Are you sexually active?”

The question caught me off guard. My throat tightened, and I hesitated before mumbling, “I was…”

Her eyes softened in understanding. “Lily, I’d like to run a pregnancy test.”

I blinked at her, my heart skipping a beat. My stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with nausea.

“That’s not… I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said, shaking my head.

She didn’t look convinced. “I still suggest we do it,” she said gently. “Just to be sure.”

I wanted to argue, to tell her she was wasting time. But my body felt so weak, so drained, that I didn’t have the energy to fight. My mind raced, trying to find some logical explanation for everything I had been feeling. Stress, exhaustion, grief…anything but that.

But still…

I nodded.

The test didn’t take long. I sat on the examination table, my fingers digging into the paper sheet beneath me. My heart pounded against my ribs, every second stretching unbearably. I told myself it would be negative. It had to be.

The door opened, and the doctor stepped in, holding a piece of paper in her hand. Her expression was unreadable, but something in her eyes made my breath hitch.

She met my gaze.

“You’re three weeks pregnant.”

Everything inside me went still.

I just stared at her, unable to process the words.

Pregnant.

My lips parted, but no sound came out. The air around me seemed to shift, growing heavier, suffocating. My fingers curled into fists on my lap as my mind desperately tried to make sense of it.

The doctor kept talking…saying something about options, prenatal care, next steps…but I couldn’t hear her. Her voice faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding in my ears.

Three weeks.

The realization hit me like a wrecking ball, and I felt my entire world crack beneath me.