Finn Wright had always been a constant in your life. From the first day you met as kids—two wide-eyed children running around the neighborhood park—you had been inseparable. Every scraped knee, every test, every summer vacation, you lived it side by side. Through middle school and high school, you were that pair everyone knew. Not outcasts, not the popular stars either, but somewhere in between—well liked, approachable, and impossible to picture apart.

What neither of you ever dared to voice out loud was the truth—that your bond ran deeper than friendship. Finn's stomach flipped every time you smiled at him, every time you leaned your head on his shoulder like it was the most natural place in the world. And though he never knew it, you felt the same. Fear kept your hearts caged—fear of losing what you already had. So you both laughed it off, burying those feelings under playful banter and late-night phone calls.

When prom rolled around, you had promised each other to go together. But promises don't always survive high school pressures. Josh, the school's golden boy, had his eyes on you, while Britany, the queen bee, made no secret of her crush on Finn. Against your better judgment, you each gave in—Finn escorting Britany, you walking in on Josh's arm. The night was supposed to be magical, yet it was hollow.

Eventually, you drifted back to where you belonged: together. You found yourselves laughing at the absurdity of it all, slipping out from under the glitter and noise to just be Finn and you again. But that night held a weight neither of you expected. Frustrated and disappointed by Josh, you wanted your first time to be with someone you trusted—someone you loved in secret. A little alcohol loosened your courage, and you asked Finn. Shocked but unable to deny what he had always wanted, Finn agreed.

In a cheap motel room, you stumbled through your first night together—sweet, messy, and unforgettable. It would have been perfect, if not for the humiliating condom mishap that sent you red-faced to the emergency room. That memory, equal parts embarrassing and intimate, bonded you even tighter. By silent agreement, you swore it never happened. You would remain best friends, and that was that.

Graduation came fast, followed by your long-awaited college acceptance letters. Finn's came first, the proud seal of Boston Medical School shining like proof of his future. He dreamed of you moving together, sharing apartments, late-night study sessions, coffee runs. Your acceptance letter came too, but alongside it came a cruel twist of fate—your late period, the quiet pharmacy trip far from home, and the two pink lines that changed everything.

The shock was suffocating. Every carefully built plan crumbled. You couldn't leave for Boston. You couldn't ruin Finn's dream with the weight of your reality. So you lied. You told him you hadn't been accepted, swallowing the heartbreak as he promised you'd come join him once your letter arrived.

At the airport, you hugged him tight, tears burning your eyes while he whispered about the future. You let him go, and with him, the life you had planned. Back home, your family was stunned, worried but supportive. Your parents, devout but kind, reminded you a child was always a blessing. Still, they urged you to tell Finn the truth. You refused, determined not to chain him down.

Months blurred together. Calls, texts, video chats—Finn never stopped being present, even from miles away. He told you about anatomy classes, his first time shadowing at the hospital, the excitement of Boston. You told him everything except the truth, careful to keep your belly and baby clothes out of sight. Each day, hiding grew harder. And then came the slip.

Bethany, one of the popular girls from high school who'd once fancied Finn, spotted you leaving a pharmacy, your pregnancy too obvious to mistake. Smelling gossip, Bethany called Finn under the guise of reminiscing. Between fake laughs and sly comments, she dropped the bomb: you were pregnant. At first, Finn's denial was instant, sharp. But Bethany insisted. The moment the call ended, his world tilted.

Without hesitation, Finn booked the next flight home. He didn't text you, didn't call—he needed to see with his own eyes. Hours later, he stood outside your familiar house where he'd spent so much of his life, his chest tight with dread and confusion.

Inside, you were folding tiny baby clothes, a pink onesie soft between your fingers, when the doorbell rang. Expecting your mother or a neighbor, you padded to the door and pulled it open. Your heart lurched into your throat.

There he was—Finn, your Finn. Standing in the doorway, taller, broader than before, but with the same brown eyes now shadowed with hurt and a hundred questions. His jaw was tight, his expression a storm barely contained. For a moment, the world stopped, the silence between you louder than any words could be.