Fragile Truths

I woke up with his arms still around me.

His chest rose and fell against my back, warm and steady, but there was a stiffness to the way he held me now — like his body remembered comfort but his mind was already elsewhere. I didn’t move. I just laid there, listening to the quiet beat of his heart, pretending nothing had changed since the night before.

But everything had changed.

I’d said it.

I told him I loved him.

And he didn’t say it back.

Not really. Not in words.

Instead, he gave me pieces. A look. A kiss. A confession without the name. And I told myself it was enough. I tried to believe that. But the ache in my chest said otherwise.

Slowly, I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. My feet touched the cool floor, grounding me as I padded toward the kitchen. The morning air was crisp, cutting through the fog in my brain. I filled the kettle, placed it on the stove, and reached for the pills the hospital gave me — anti-nausea, prenatal vitamins, iron supplements.

I stared at the bottle a little too long. Three little lives growing inside me. Three. I still hadn’t wrapped my head around it completely. What was supposed to be a quiet whisper of joy had become a heavy, terrifying secret. I needed to tell him. I wanted to tell him. But I couldn’t — not yet. Not with so much unspoken between us.

The kettle whistled. I made tea. Mint — the only thing that didn’t make my stomach churn. I curled into the couch with the mug clutched in my hands like it could anchor me. I scrolled through my phone, pretending to be interested in news articles I wouldn’t remember five minutes from now.

I heard the soft creak of the bedroom door. His footsteps were light, but familiar. My heart stuttered anyway.

He was shirtless, hair still a little messy, eyes unreadable. Beautiful. Distant.

“Morning,” I said, voice softer than I meant.

He walked over and sat beside me. “Morning.”

His hand brushed my knee lightly, but it didn’t linger.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“Nightmares?”

“No.” I looked down at my mug. “Just… thoughts.”

He nodded but didn’t ask. The silence stretched between us like a thread pulled too tight. One wrong movement and it would snap.

We ate breakfast together — eggs, toast, nothing too complicated. My appetite was fragile. I pushed food around my plate more than I ate, and he didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, but didn’t ask. We kept the conversation light. Safe. Weather. Work. A new café opening down the street. The surface-level stuff people talk about when they’re trying to ignore the storm beneath it.

I caught him watching me once, just briefly, his expression unreadable. I opened my mouth to ask what was on his mind, but I couldn’t. Not yet. I wasn’t ready for the answer.

After breakfast, he disappeared into his office to make calls. I lingered by the window, watching the city move outside — fast, indifferent, alive. I pressed a hand to my belly, still barely changed, still secret.

“You’ll have a better life than I did,” I whispered. “Even if I have to do this alone.”

I didn’t mean it.

But part of me feared it. That if I waited too long to tell him, the silence between us would become permanent. That love — even the kind that feels inevitable — might not be enough.

He came out around noon, asked if I wanted to go out. I said no. The nausea was creeping back in and I didn’t trust myself not to run to the nearest trash can mid-conversation. He didn’t push. He just gave me a kiss on the forehead and said he’d pick something up.

While he was gone, I paced. Called the OB office again. No answer — just a cheerful voicemail asking me to leave a message. I didn’t. I didn’t want to leave anything that could be overheard.

I sat back down, pulled the ultrasound photo out of my purse, and stared at it.

Three little dots. Three little heartbeats.

Three futures wrapped in uncertainty.

I heard the door open.

Atlas stepped inside with a small bag from my favorite deli and two bottled lemonades. His thoughtfulness made something ache in my throat. He sat beside me again, too close and too far all at once.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice lower now, more deliberate.

I hesitated. “I’m… not sure.”

He looked at me, really looked at me, and the intensity of his gaze made me want to both run and collapse into him.

“I’ve been thinking about last night,” he said.

My stomach flipped. “Okay.”

“You caught me off guard,” he admitted. “No one’s ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not when it mattered.”

“You don’t have to explain,” I said quickly, afraid of what might follow.

“But I want to.” His fingers laced through mine, warm and steady. “I’m not used to this. Feeling something that isn’t just… desire or convenience. This is different.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“You matter to me,” he said. “A lot more than I think I’ve let on.”

“But you didn’t say it back.”

“No,” he said honestly. “Because I’m not ready to say it. Not until I know I can live up to it.”

I blinked, surprised by the rawness in his voice.

“I don’t want to say I love you and then disappoint you. Or hurt you. Or fail.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need a promise,” I said softly. “I just need honesty.”

He nodded again, and this time, he leaned in and kissed me — slow, deep, grounding. And for a few seconds, the fear melted away. For a few seconds, I believed we could do this.

But then he pulled back. His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

“I have to take this,” he said with a sigh. “Just a few minutes.”

I nodded, watching him disappear into the office again.

The silence that followed felt heavier.

I sat on the couch alone again, the ultrasound photo still in my hands. I looked at it one more time before slipping it back into my purse.

When he came out twenty minutes later, I stood up.

“Atlas,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

He turned, his brow furrowing slightly. “What is it?”

I opened my mouth — and froze.

The words were right there. But so was the fear.

I looked at him, the man who made me feel both invincible and breakable, and I couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not with his eyes still clouded. Not when I didn’t know if he was ready to hear it.

“Never mind,” I said, forcing a smile. “It can wait.”

He took a step closer. “Calliope…”

“I’m okay,” I lied.

His fingers brushed my cheek, but he didn’t press.

That night, he held me like he always did. But I could feel the space between us — not physical, not even visible. But it was there. And it was growing.

I laid awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, wondering how much longer I could wait before the truth crushed me from the inside out.

I told myself he didn’t notice. That the way I swallowed my words and smiled instead hadn’t been obvious. That he wasn’t watching me more carefully now. But I could feel his attention in the silence. Quiet and calculating, like he knew I was holding something back—but was waiting for me to offer it on my own.

We watched a movie that evening. Some thriller he’d been talking about for weeks. I didn’t retain a single scene. I sat curled beside him, his arm over my shoulders, my hand resting over my stomach as if to soothe the ache there — not from nausea, but from fear. The fear of time running out. The fear of what could happen if I waited too long. If I told him too late.

He leaned over at one point, brushing his lips over my temple. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“I’m just tired,” I murmured.

It wasn’t a lie.

My mind had been running all day, caught between timelines: when to tell him, how to tell him, what might happen after I did. I’d already played out every possible scenario. The good ones always felt like dreams. The bad ones felt like memories I hadn’t lived yet—but would.

He pulled me closer. “You want to lie down?”

I nodded, and we stood, walking to the bedroom in silence. He undressed slowly, and I watched him from across the room, memorizing every line of his body — the shape of his shoulders, the slope of his back, the tattoo on his ribs I still hadn’t asked about.

I climbed into bed while he was brushing his teeth. I stared up at the ceiling, heart heavy in my chest, wondering how something so beautiful could be built on this much fear.

When he slid in beside me, he reached for me immediately — pulled me into his arms, tucked me under his chin like he always did.

And I let him. Even though I wasn’t sure which version of me he thought he was holding — the confident woman who whispered that she loved him last night, or the terrified one clutching a secret like it might burst.

Minutes passed. Then more.

“I was serious last night,” I whispered suddenly.

His arm tensed around me. “About what?”

“Loving you.”

He didn’t say anything at first.

Then, “I know.”

I swallowed the sharp sting of disappointment.

“I just… didn’t want you to think I said it in the heat of the moment,” I added.

His voice was low when he replied. “I didn’t.”

But still, the silence followed — a silence that didn’t feel like comfort. It felt like waiting. Like we were both caught in two separate thoughts we didn’t know how to say out loud.

After a while, I rolled over so my back was to him. He didn’t pull me closer.

We lay that way for a long time.

And eventually, when his breathing slowed and steadied behind me, I let myself cry — quietly, carefully, so he wouldn’t wake.

Not because he didn’t love me. I could see it in the way he touched me, the way he protected me, the way he looked at me when he didn’t think I was watching.

But love needed more than looks and touches.

It needed truth.

And mine was still buried too deep.

I fell asleep like that, with tears drying on my cheeks and one hand resting over the soft curve of my belly.

I woke the next morning to the sound of the front door closing. I sat up quickly, heart racing.

“Atlas?” I called out.

No answer.

I checked my phone. A message was waiting.

Had to handle something early this morning. Didn’t want to wake you. I’ll text when I’m back. — A

I stared at the screen for a long time.

He hadn’t called me “little one.”

He hadn’t said I miss you, or I’ll see you soon.

He hadn’t said I love you.

And I hadn’t said what I really needed to.

Not yet.

I got up and dressed slowly. My nausea had returned, though it was duller this time — like my body had grown used to the discomfort, even if I hadn’t. I took my pills, skipped breakfast, and curled on the couch with my legs tucked beneath me.

The apartment felt hollow without him.

I found myself staring at the ultrasound photo again.

The three shadows in black and white.

Three lives. Three pieces of a future I hadn’t planned.

I wondered what they’d look like. What they’d be like. Would one have his eyes? Would one carry my stubbornness? Would one look at the world and demand more from it — just like I had?

A knock on the door startled me.

I checked the peephole. No one.

But a package sat at the doorstep — wrapped in black and gold paper. No name. No card.

I brought it inside with shaking hands.

When I opened it, I found a note tucked inside a small velvet box:

For the woman who taught me how to breathe again.

— A

Inside the box was a delicate necklace — a fine gold chain with a tiny emerald heart at its center.

I stared at it for a long time.

He hadn’t said the words. But this… this was his way.

Still, the necklace felt like a bandage over a wound that needed stitches.

I couldn’t wear it until he knew the whole truth.

Until I told him.

So I placed it back in the box, closed the lid gently, and set it beside the ultrasound photo on the coffee table.

Two truths.

Two confessions waiting to be spoken.

And only one heart brave enough to say them.