Cold Hands, Colder Walls

The door closed with a quiet click, and she sank against it, fists trembling at her sides.

Atlas was gone.

Again.

He’d stood outside that door for nearly ten minutes. Begging. Explaining. Bleeding apologies. But none of it mattered now—not when she had seen what she saw. Not when the moment had shattered something delicate and almost sacred between them.

The image of him—his mouth against hers, hand still resting on the curve of the other woman’s waist—kept looping in her mind like some cruel movie reel that refused to burn out.

And worse than the kiss?

He hadn’t chased her.

She had turned and fled down that hallway, eyes full of tears, the words I’m pregnant still choking on her tongue—and he hadn’t even called her name. Not once.

Her stomach turned. She sank to the floor and curled her arms around her knees, the tiny ultrasound picture crinkling slightly where it was still tucked into her hoodie pocket.

She pulled it out with shaking hands.

Two silhouettes.

Two hearts.

Two reasons to stay strong.

The days blurred.

She deleted his texts before reading them. Blocked his number after the fifth voicemail. When the flowers arrived—lavish, gorgeous, all white roses—she carried them downstairs and dumped them into the alley behind the building.

“I don’t want his pity,” she murmured to herself.

But that wasn’t entirely true.

What she wanted was for none of this to be real.

On the third morning, she stood in front of her bathroom mirror and stared at herself.

Skin pale.

Eyes rimmed red from crying.

Lips chapped and trembling.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

When she’d first found out about the pregnancy, fear had wrapped itself around her like a second skin—but love had followed. Quiet at first, like fog curling through a windowpane. Then it had deepened. Solidified. She’d started imagining their life together—chaotic and imperfect, but built on something real.

She never imagined she’d be doing it alone.

She was halfway through a mug of tea when the knock came.

Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

She just stared at the door like it might open on its own.

Then another knock. Louder.

“Calliope…” Atlas’s voice, muffled but unmistakable. Deep. Rough. “Please open the door.”

Her chest squeezed.

No.

He didn’t get to ask for her now. Not after everything.

She stood slowly, carefully—one hand protectively over her stomach. Every part of her screamed to stay quiet, to disappear. But instead, she crossed the room and unlocked the door.

Only a sliver. Just enough.

He looked like hell. Disheveled, eyes rimmed in exhaustion, jaw darkened with a few days’ worth of stubble. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and his expensive clothes looked like they hadn’t seen an iron since the night she left.

God, he was still beautiful.

And still hers.

Except… not.

“What do you want, Atlas?” she said quietly, eyes cold despite the ache spreading across her ribs.

“I need to talk to you. Please.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing left to say.”

“There is. Calliope, it wasn’t what you think—”

“I think I saw you kissing another woman.”

His mouth opened. Closed. He looked like he might punch the doorframe.

“I didn’t kiss her back.”

“I don’t care.”

His eyes snapped to hers. “You don’t mean that.”

The rage. The grief. The betrayal—all surged at once.

“You think that makes it better? That you didn’t kiss her back? That I should just forget what I saw because it wasn’t passionate?” Her voice cracked like lightning. “I came there to tell you something that would’ve changed everything. And you ruined it.”

“What?” he whispered. “What were you going to tell me?”

She hesitated.

Say it, her heart begged. Just say it. Let him know.

But her mind was steel.

No. Not like this. Not now.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, stepping back.

“It does.”

“It doesn’t, Atlas. Go home.”

“Calliope—”

“No.” She looked him dead in the eye, tears stinging. “Whatever we were building? It ended the second she touched you. I can’t be with someone I don’t trust.”

He flinched.

She started to shut the door, but he stepped forward and blocked it gently with his hand.

“Don’t shut me out.”

“I already have.”

Click.

She closed it.

And this time, she didn’t cry.

One Week Later

The clinic smelled like antiseptic and lavender. Her doctor had put on soft music to calm her nerves, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped these days.

Calliope lay on the table, gown gaping open at her belly, cold gel already smeared across her skin.

The wand pressed lightly into her side.

“There we go,” the doctor murmured. “Heartbeat’s strong.”

The sound filled the room—rapid and rhythmic.

Then another.

Her throat tightened.

“They’re still healthy?” she asked, voice barely audible.

“Perfectly healthy,” the doctor smiled. “You’re doing great.”

But Calliope didn’t feel great.

She felt broken.

She walked through the park after her appointment, one hand curled protectively around her bump. It was just barely starting to show—a small swell beneath her sweater. No one else would’ve noticed. But she felt every inch of it.

Three heartbeats.

Three lives.

And she was their only anchor now.

Atlas didn’t even know.

And maybe he never would.

She sat on a bench beneath a tree and took the sonogram print from her coat pocket.

Three perfect shapes.

Tears burned her eyes.

You were supposed to be part of this, she whispered into the wind. You were supposed to be the one holding my hand.

Instead, she sat alone. A stranger passed by with a stroller and smiled warmly.

Calliope couldn’t bring herself to smile back.

That night, she stared up at the ceiling in the dark, one hand resting gently on her stomach.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered to them. “I’ll protect you. I’ll love you enough for both of us.”

She said it again. And again.

Until she finally fell asleep.

And dreamed of the man who’d left her heart in pieces.