A/N: Revised due to logistical errors. Once again in debt to Bel Vezer.
"Oh soul, you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less, why do you worry?
You are in truth the soul, of the soul, of the soul."
- Jalal ad-Din Rumi
She should have seen it when she fell asleep that time a few days ago…in the midst of lovemaking, no less, something she was generally quite invested in. She should've seen it when she flinched at his embrace, sharp pains shooting through her. She should've seen it when she was too nauseous for coffee, something indicative of hell freezing over.
But she didn't.
She didn't want to see it.
Until she saw the calendar.
She'd been late before. As an intern, she'd gone through three or four store-bought pregnancy tests, what with lack of sleep and excessive amounts of stress throwing her for countless loops. But it had never really been more than a day or so late, three at the most. But four days…four days was something different. Something that sent a shiver up her spine.
Because she couldn't be.
Not now.
If ever.
She'd worked too hard to let things slip away from her. Everything was so perfectly in its place. She had a job she loved. She was sober. She was stable. And she was with Luka.
Luka.
She was with Luka and he'd – no.
He hadn't.
Had he?
Ignoring her body's signs was like ignoring an oncoming train while standing on the tracks. Impossible in every sense of the word. She gave herself a full week, hoping it was stress from a new relationship, too much time at work. She gave herself another day after that, in case it was a bug or something else equally convenient. And then, at a full ten days late, she took a vial of hCG strips from lockup and hid them in the deepest recesses of her linen closet…as though somehow that would be enough. Having the strips, accepting it was possible, would be enough to make it disappear.
Because she couldn't be.
Not now.
If ever.
It wasn't until she was ten days and seventeen hours late that a wave of nausea so powerful it stopped her in her tracks, doubled her over, and drenched her with fear, hit, that she reached into the linen closet again. Half-crouched on the tile of her bathroom floor, thank goodness he was working, halfway between retching and praying, she unscrewed the cap.
Her hands were shaking. The first strip fluttered from her trembling fingers to the toilet like a dainty little butterfly, carefree and fanciful. She cursed the thing. The second she stared at so long, she was fairly sure she'd damaged it in her white-fingertipped grasp. The third she was shaking so badly she ruined it, followed suit with fourth and fifth.
Number six. Number six, do or die. Semper fie, do or die, carpe diem, all of it. Carpe the damn thing and piss on it. She cursed under her breath at actually managing to succeed with this one; half disappointed she hadn't ruined it as well. She laid it out carefully, against the color sheet, though she didn't have to. It was blue. Blue as that damn shirt he'd worn the other night to dinner. Blue as the surgeons' scrub tops. Blue as…well, blue. She hated blue.
Baby blues.
Perhaps there was a reaction she hadn't been aware of. Some drug interaction that gave a false positive – something she hadn't read up on. A mix of caffeine, club soda, and the melatonin she took to sleep now and then that threw off her hormone levels.
The PDR yielded nothing. Not a single relief. But still…a blood test was the only sure indication. The strips were probably old. Maybe tainted by the mothballs in her linen closet.
Because she couldn't be.
He couldn't have.
She couldn't face this, not now, if ever. She wasn't strong enough, she wasn't loving enough, she wasn't in love enough. She wasn't sure enough of him and of them for this to be possible. She wasn't young enough to be able or old enough to be ready.
She wasn't brave enough to acknowledge that tiny leap of her heart.
She couldn't be.
Not now.
If ever.
