The apartment was quiet again.

Too quiet. Not the kind of peaceful quiet people hope for after a long day—but the kind that feels heavy and full of sadness, like grief holding its breath.

I stood in the doorway, keys still in my hand. My shoulders were soaked from the rain. I hadn't grabbed an umbrella, and truthfully, it hadn't even crossed my mind. My bag slipped down my arm, nearly falling, but I stayed still. My coat was wet, my hair stuck to my neck, and my skin felt cold. But this wasn't just from the rain. It was the kind of cold that came from inside and spread outwards.

The lights in the apartment were off. Only one small lamp in the living room gave off a dull yellow glow, barely reaching the hallway. There weren't any footsteps. No quiet sounds from the TV. Just an emptiness that made everything feel wrong.

I slipped off my heels and stepped inside. My steps echoed too loudly in the silence. The quiet stretched and pressed into my chest. The place didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like a tomb. I was about to call out but didn't. Probably curled up in bed. Or locked in the bathroom. Or maybe... not really anywhere at all. Grief had a way of making people disappear. And she had always been small enough for sadness to completely cover her.

It had been three weeks since she lost her third pregnancy. The first loss happened two months prior. A week later, we tried again—only to miscarry once more. I stayed by her side, offering unwavering support, and gently urged her to consider IVF again. This time, everything seemed hopeful. For two weeks, she hadn't miscarried. Doctors assured us the pregnancy was progressing normally. But hope shattered during our next checkup. She had miscarried again—a third loss.

The day we'd gotten the news was dull and gray—the sky, the hospital walls, even her face as the nurse delivered the news briskly, still standing. I remembered how her grip had turned vise-like, how she'd held back tears until the hallway. Since that night, I stopped asking how she was. Stopped holding her. Not after feeling the last fragile thread between us fraying. Not after the silent drive home, every turn widening the gap from the future we'd dreamed of.

I'd held her then. Through the trembling. Through the nurse's monotone paperwork. Through the hollow walk to the car. Then... nothing.

It wasn't that I stopped caring.

It was that the pain roared. Too deafening. And I couldn't bear to listen again—not when I couldn't stitch it back together. Not when the mirror showed me unnervingly calm, falsely collected, quietly terrified.

I poured myself a drink. The glass hit the counter a little too hard. The sound made me flinch. A sharp reminder. The brown liquid swirled in my glass as I leaned against the kitchen counter. My eyes stung, but I wouldn't let myself cry. Crying felt like a luxury I didn't deserve. I used to talk about baby names. Used to come home smiling with tiny paper lists in my coat pocket. Names for a baby that never came. I couldn't look at them now. Last week, I'd thrown one away and sobbed over the trash can like it was a grave.