The waiting room was too quiet. Soft instrumental music drifted from an unseen speaker, too calm for the way his heart was pounding. He sat rigid in a plastic chair near the corner, phone gripped tight in his hand, thumb hovering uselessly over the screen.

He had probably texted Artem more than thirty times by now. The first few were reminders. Then came the check-ins, the questions, the anxious one-liners. He kept refreshing the screen anyway, hoping for a buzz, a typing bubble, anything. Nothing came. By the end, he wasn't even sure what he was sending anymore. He was just trying to fill the silence.

None of them got a response.

The clock above the reception desk ticked louder with each passing minute. Ten forty-eight. The appointment was supposed to start at ten thirty. Artem had said he was on his way. He had sworn he wouldn't miss this one.

He hadn't believed him. Not really. But he had hoped.

Around him, other patients waited in pairs. Quiet conversations. Soft smiles. They looked like this was the happiest day of their lives. A few excited glances toward ultrasound printouts. He kept his head down.

His foot tapped against the tile floor, chest tight, skin prickling with the kind of shame that made it hard to breathe. He could feel the receptionist glance at him once or twice, probably wondering if he had been stood up. He wished she would stop looking.

He blinked hard and stared at the door. Still no Artem. Still nothing. Eventually, the door to the back opened with a soft click. A nurse in scrubs stepped out, scanning a clipboard.

"Your name?"

He stood slowly, phone still clutched in his hand, and walked in alone.

He stepped out of the clinic and into the parking lot, blinking against the afternoon sun. The sky was too blue. The air too warm. Everything felt wrong.

He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, the weight of the folded ultrasound printout like a stone in his hoodie. The image was burned into his memory already, the shape of a foot, the flicker of a heartbeat, the way the screen lit up when the baby kicked. The doctor said the baby looked healthy. Strong heartbeat. Good measurements. Moving a lot. All good signs.

He nodded through it, answering when he had to, gripping the edge of the exam table to keep his hands from shaking. He smiled when the doctor made a soft comment about how active the baby was, something gentle like, "Looks like you've got a happy one in there." It was meant to be reassuring, even sweet.

Like Artem had been there. Like someone had held his hand. Like this was something they were doing together. It just made him feel more alone.

The apartment door clicked softly behind him, locking the world out with it. Inside, the glow of the TV cast lazy shapes across the walls. Artem was stretched out on the couch in an old hoodie and sweats, one arm curled behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. A muted sitcom played in the background. He wasn't really watching, just letting it fill the silence.

A half-empty mug of something sat on the coffee table next to his phone, which buzzed once, then stilled. He didn't check it. When he heard the door, he turned his head slowly, eyes landing on him with a lazy, lopsided smile. His tone was light, casual, like he hadn't just missed something that mattered.

"Hey," he said, stretching slightly. "You're back."