Chapter Two : Crack in the silence

Days turned into weeks, but the memory of that night refused to fade. If anything, it grew sharper, louder, demanding my attention every time I tried to push it away.

Clara and I kept our distance, but avoidance only made things more obvious. She would leave the room when I entered. She would busy herself with meaningless tasks, anything to keep from having to speak to me. My fiancée noticed, of course — she noticed everything — but she misread the signs.

“Did you say something to Clara?” she asked one evening, her brow furrowed as she set the dinner table. “She’s been… strange lately.”

I forced a laugh. “No, not at all. Maybe she’s just stressed. You know how she gets.”

It was a weak excuse, but she accepted it. Or maybe she wanted to believe it. The thought of her sister and her fiancé sharing a secret that could destroy her — no, she couldn’t even begin to imagine it.

And yet, the more I tried to pretend, the more the truth gnawed at me.

At night, I lay awake beside her, staring at the ceiling, while Clara’s face haunted me from the shadows of my memory. Guilt sat on my chest like a weight I couldn’t shake off. Even the smallest moments — brushing against Clara’s hand when passing a plate, catching her eye across the room — felt loaded with unspoken words.

The tension finally broke one afternoon when I found her alone in the kitchen. She was washing dishes, her back turned to me. The sound of running water filled the silence between us.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she whispered suddenly, her voice trembling.

I froze. “Doing what?”

She turned, her eyes burning with frustration. “Pretending nothing happened. Pretending it doesn’t matter.”

My throat went dry. “It was a mistake,” I said quickly. “We were both… drunk, upset. It can’t happen again. It won’t happen again.”

Clara laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “You think it’s that simple? You think we can just erase it?”

Her words cut deeper than I expected, because she was right. Nothing about this was simple. No matter how much I wanted to bury it, the truth lingered between us, poisonous and alive.

And in that moment, watching her struggle to hold back tears, I realized something terrifying.

The night itself hadn’t destroyed us. It was what came after — the silence, the lies, the cracks spreading through the fragile glass of our lives — that would shatter everything.

 began with small things. Clara skipping meals. Her face pale in the mornings. The way she’d excuse herself suddenly, rushing to the bathroom with her hand over her mouth. At first, I didn’t want to see it — didn’t dare let my mind go there. But denial doesn’t change reality.

One night, long after everyone had gone to bed, I found her sitting at the kitchen table, a single white stick resting in front of her. Her hands shook as she gripped the edges of her chair, her eyes red and swollen.

I didn’t need to ask.

She looked up at me, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’m late,” she whispered. “I thought it was just stress, but… it’s not. I took the test.”

My stomach dropped, my legs suddenly weak. I sat down across from her, staring at the small piece of plastic that now held the power to unravel everything. The word on it was clear. Positive.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the silence, every second pressing down on us like a hammer.

Finally, I managed to breathe out, “Clara… are you sure?”

She gave me a sharp, broken laugh. “You think I’d be sitting here if I wasn’t?” Her voice cracked. “What am I supposed to do? What are we supposed to do?”

I buried my face in my hands. My fiancée was upstairs, sleeping peacefully, dreaming about a future with me — a wedding, a home, a family. And here I was, sitting in the dark with her sister, staring at the proof of a betrayal that could destroy everything.

Panic clawed at me, but beneath it was something even heavier: responsibility. There was no undoing what we’d done. A life had been created, and now every choice we made would ripple through all of ours.

“We… we can’t tell her,” I muttered, my voice hollow.

Clara’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing. “You think we can hide this? You think she won’t notice when I start showing? When I’m carrying your child?”

Her words were like knives. Cold. Final.

For the first time, the full weight of what I had done settled on me, suffocating and merciless. It wasn’t just a mistake anymore. It wasn’t just guilt gnawing at me in the dark.

It was real. It was alive. And there was no turning back.