Silent Echoes of the Past

On the night I found out I was pregnant, I stumbled across a viral "Truth or Dare" challenge video online. In the comment section, my best friend had tagged my boyfriend. Erika McKnight: [Do you dare to tell her that the only reason you take off her hearing aid every night is that she won't hear you in my room next door?] David Frazier had replied almost instantly: [No. Erika, don't be crazy.] Erika: [Don't worry. I won't say a word, not since I'm dying. My only wish before I go is to see you two happy.] The comment section exploded with fury. What nobody knew was that years ago, a drunk caretaker at the orphanage targeted me as a kid. Erika had shoved me into a utility closet and locked the door from the outside. She had protected me that night. And David had turned down a famous university offer and given up studying abroad just to spend three whole years tutoring me so I could make it into college. I owed them far too much—so much that even after discovering they were seeing each other behind my back, hating them felt ungrateful. After closing the app, I received a phone call from the hospital, informing me that Erika was running out of time on the liver transplant list. As it turned out, I was a perfect donor match. I looked down at the other lab report resting in my lap. It showed that I was six weeks pregnant. I went to the hospital alone and signed the organ donation consent forms, alongside the paperwork to terminate my pregnancy.