Chapter 4: A Night Without Sleep

Sleep doesn't come, no matter how many times I close my eyes and beg my body to let go.

I lie on my side, knees drawn up, one hand resting against my stomach the way it has every night since the appointment. Outside, the city hums faintly through the window — a distant siren, a car horn, someone's laughter carried up from the street below. Ordinary sounds from an ordinary night that no longer feels ordinary to me at all.

I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling instead.

At some point past midnight, I give up pretending sleep is coming and pad barefoot into the kitchen for a glass of water. The floor is cold under my feet. I don't bother with the light — I know this apartment well enough to move through it in the dark, past the table, past the counter, to the sink where I fill a glass and drink it standing up, staring out at the sliver of city visible between the buildings across the street.

A light is on in a window somewhere out there. I wonder, briefly, who else is awake at this hour, and whether whatever's keeping them up feels as heavy as what's keeping me up.

I set the glass down and press both hands against the counter, letting my head hang forward for a moment, the way I did that first morning when the pain hadn't yet told me its real name.

"You can do this," I whisper to the empty kitchen. "Women do this every day. Alone. You're not the first."

It doesn't make the fear smaller. It just gives it somewhere to sit while I go back to bed.

Two heartbeats. Two small, stubborn heartbeats, already fighting for a life I don't know how to give them.

I press both hands flat against my stomach now, side by side, and try to imagine what they'll look like. Whose eyes they'll have. Whether they'll be loud or quiet, whether they'll fight with each other the way siblings do, whether they'll ever ask me questions about their father that I won't know how to answer honestly.

Their father.

I haven't let myself think his name in weeks. I've gotten good at catching the thought before it fully forms, redirecting it the way you'd steer around a pothole in the road without really looking at it. But tonight, lying awake with nothing but silence and two flickering shapes on a printout hidden in my planner, I don't have the strength to steer around it anymore.

Andriy.

The name settles into the room like it's been waiting outside the door this whole time, patient, for the moment I'd finally let it in.

I close my eyes and I'm back there before I can stop myself — a night that still doesn't feel entirely real, even now, even with the proof of it growing inside me.

I remember the low lights of a hotel bar I never should have wandered into that night. I remember being exhausted in a different way than I am now, worn down by a life that had been taking more from me than it gave back for longer than I wanted to admit. I remember a stranger buying me a drink I didn't ask for and didn't refuse either, because for once, someone was looking at me like I mattered.

I remember his voice before I remember his face. Low. Controlled. The kind of voice that didn't need to be raised to fill a room.

I remember thinking, just for one night, I don't want to be the woman who's always careful.

I remember his hand finding mine across the small table between us, and how warm it was, how steady, in a way nothing else in my life had felt steady in longer than I could count.

I don't let myself remember much past that. Some things belong only to that night, sealed away where the morning light never quite reached them. What I do remember, clearly, painfully, is waking up alone before sunrise in a room too expensive for someone like me, a note folded on the pillow beside me that I read once and never let myself read again.

I remember dressing quickly, quietly, and letting myself out before anyone could see the woman who didn't belong in a place like that leaving it.

I never learned his last name that night. I learned it three weeks later, entirely by accident, staring at a business headline on my phone during my lunch break, his photograph staring back at me above a title that made my stomach drop for reasons that had nothing to do with pregnancy.

Andriy. CEO. A name attached to buildings, to boardrooms, to a life so far removed from mine that the two of us being in the same room once felt, in hindsight, like some kind of mistake the universe had made and was already trying to correct.

I open my eyes again, back in my dark bedroom, back in the life that actually belongs to me.

"He doesn't know," I whisper into the dark. "He can't know."

But even as I say it, some small, honest part of me wonders if that's really fear talking, or something closer to shame — shame that I let myself want something, someone, for one single night, and this is what it cost me.

I turn onto my side again, curling around the small, steady warmth of my own hands pressed to my stomach.

"It's just us," I whisper, the same promise I made two nights ago, the words worn smooth already from repeating them. "I know I keep saying that. I mean it every time."

The city keeps humming outside my window, indifferent to the promise I'm making in the dark to two lives that don't know yet how complicated their existence already is.

I think about reaching out. I think about it seriously, for the first time, turning the idea over slowly, testing its weight. A man like that has resources I can't imagine. Doctors. Security. A future that wouldn't require me gripping kitchen tables alone at five in the morning.

But I also think about that folded note on the pillow, and what it told me about a man who disappears before sunrise.

I think about walls, and how easily powerful men build them, and how little space is usually left inside for a woman he met once in a hotel bar and two children he never asked for.

"No," I whisper, more to myself than to anyone. "We don't need him. We'll figure this out ourselves."

I almost believe it.

Almost.

Somewhere past three in the morning, exhaustion finally wins the fight sleep has been losing all night. My eyes grow heavy despite everything spinning through my mind, and the last thought I have before the dark finally pulls me under isn't fear.

It's his voice. Low. Steady. Filling a room without needing to be raised.

I don't know yet that in a few days, I'm going to hear that voice again, closer than I ever expected, in circumstances that will make the promise I keep whispering into the dark far harder to keep than I think it will be tonight.

For now, I just sleep, one hand still resting protectively over the two small lives that are already, quietly, changing the shape of everything.

•  •

Morning comes too fast and too grey, the way it always does after a night that refuses to give up its hours easily.

I wake with my hand still pressed against my stomach, my neck stiff from sleeping in one position too long, and for a moment I lie perfectly still, listening to my own heartbeat like it might tell me something about the two smaller ones beneath it.

"Morning," I whisper, and I almost laugh at myself for saying it out loud to no one. Almost.

I force myself out of bed before the exhaustion can talk me back into it. There's no version of today where staying under the blankets solves anything. The rent doesn't pause. The bills don't wait for a woman to figure out how to carry two lives instead of one.

I shower on autopilot, dress in the same practiced armor I've worn all week, and stand at my door for one long moment before I leave, my hand resting briefly against my stomach the way it always does now, an unconscious habit already forming.

"Whatever today brings," I tell them quietly, "I've got you."

I don't know yet how quickly today is going to test that promise. I don't know that somewhere across the city, a man I spent one night with and every day since trying to forget is about to walk back into my life in a way I never could have prepared for.

I just pick up my bag, lock the door behind me, and start down the twenty-two stairs, one hand on the railing, the other resting where it always does now, carrying a secret that's about to stop being just mine to keep.