The Photographer's Deceptive Lens

y Wal

u're crying." The voice on the other end o

," I lied, my voice cracking. "Just... a lit

s completely normal. Just breathe.

The brutal irony of it all. A stranger on a phone, offerin

osts. The internet was a vast, unforgiving archive, spewing forth every detail of Austen's passionate past with Isolde. Every glowing rev

he was a man capable of profound, all-consuming devotion. A devotion I had never witnessed, never experienced. He'd made me believe he wa

And now, he was probably pouring it all out again, rushing to her side, fixing her proble

n my chest. By morning, the tears had dried, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I had to let go. I had to kill

iting room, acutely aware of the couples around me. They held hands, whispered reas

r hair, murmuring something I couldn't quite hear, but the tenderness in his gaze was unmistakab

nwavering support. That shared journey. Austen had laughed off my morning sickness as "just a bug," my fatigue as "

egnant. How could he? I hadn't told him. I'd wanted to surprise him, to wrap it up with a

urse called my nam

ing strangely heavy, my

c indicates you're a little further along than you thought. There's also a genetic marker that suggests... a higher risk for complications." She paused, her gaze gentle but s

ldn't control. Family. Partner.

g. I pulled it out, my heart jumpin

honey? Your dad and I can't

one that was now a ghost. How could I tell them? How could I tell them a

. Should I pause? Should I go home, gather my parents, try to talk to Aust

ame flashed on the screen, a jarring interruption to