The morning sun filtered weakly through the gauzy curtains, casting a muted glow across the room. Rosie lay in bed, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might give her answers. Her hands rested on her stomach, flat and quiet, as if trying to sense something that hadn't yet made itself known.
Down the hall, Arthur had already been awake for hours. He sat hunched over the kitchen table, a mug of half-drunk coffee between his palms, untouched for the last twenty minutes. His foot bounced under the table in a rhythm he couldn't control. He wasn't sure if the caffeine was making him jittery or if the weight of last night's conversation was simply too much to bear.
Neither of them had said a word since they returned from the hospital. No goodnight. No promise that everything would be alright. Just silence. Thick and stretching.
Rosie eventually emerged from her room, moving like her limbs were heavier than they should be. She sat at the breakfast table beside Arthur but didn't reach for the toast or eggs Jane had carefully laid out.
"Good morning," Jane said brightly, trying not to stare too long. She could feel something in the air—Rosie looked pale, and Arthur looked like he hadn't slept. But she said nothing more, returning to a story about a funny incident at the market the day before.
Charles chuckled along, sipping his coffee, completely unaware of the undercurrent of tension between the younger two. Arthur barely looked up from his plate. Rosie pushed her eggs around and offered a thin smile when prompted, but she never took a bite.
Arthur glanced at her once, briefly. She didn't meet his eyes.
It was only after breakfast, when the others had stepped outside to clean up the backyard, that Arthur's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. A message from the hospital.
He opened it.
Positive. The blood test confirmed what they both already knew but hadn't said out loud since last night.
He went cold.
Rosie was coming back into the kitchen just then, carrying two empty glasses. Arthur turned the screen toward her without a word.
She froze.
Her eyes scanned the words. Then she looked up at him. "So it's real."
Arthur nodded slowly. "Yeah. It's real."
They didn't speak for several seconds. There was just a low hum from the fridge, and the faint laughter of Jane and Charles drifting in from the backyard.
"I need to go upstairs," Rosie muttered, setting the glasses down quickly.
Arthur followed her up, concerned. "Rosie, wait—"
But she was already in her room. The door wasn't shut hard, but it wasn't left open either. When Arthur knocked softly a few minutes later and peeked inside, he saw her on the floor beside the bed, a small overnight bag half-packed at her side.
"What are you doing?" he asked, heart dropping.
"I don't know," she said without looking at him. "I just need to breathe. I can't think in here."
"Rosie." He stepped in, kneeling beside her. "Please don't leave."
"I'm not trying to run away," she whispered. "I just… don't know what I'm supposed to do. How do I tell Jane? How do I sit through dinner knowing what we know? What if this ruins everything?"
Arthur touched her hand gently. "We don't have to tell them yet. We'll take it slow. One thing at a time."
She finally looked at him, eyes glossy. "I don't want to run. But I don't want to break everything either."
"Then we hold it together," Arthur said, voice low. "One thread at a time."
Rosie let out a shaky breath. Her hand found his, fingers curling around his tightly. "God, I'm scared."
"I am too," he admitted. "But I'm more scared of doing this without you."
They sat like that for a while, quiet. The bag sat beside them, half-packed, forgotten for now.
Later that evening, when the house had quieted and Jane and Charles had retreated to their study for the night, Rosie and Arthur skipped dinner downstairs. Instead, they shared leftovers in Rosie's room in awkward silence, both too tired to pretend everything was normal.
Arthur spilled a bit of rice on the comforter and cursed under his breath. Rosie laughed weakly. "That's the third time you've done that."
"I'm nervous," he muttered, reaching for a napkin.
"Yeah. Me too." Her voice was softer now.
They didn't finish the food. They barely touched it.
Hours passed. The moon rose high outside the window, casting silver lines across Rosie's floor. The silence between them had shifted—it wasn't as sharp as before. More like the hush that comes before a storm.
Around midnight, Arthur returned quietly to her room. Rosie was sitting near the window, legs pulled up to her chest. She didn't turn around when he entered.
He joined her, leaning back against the wall. She shifted slightly, laying down beside him and resting her head on his chest, her legs draped across his.
For a long time, neither said anything.
Then Rosie whispered, "What if this changes everything?"
Arthur stroked her hair gently. "It already has."
"Then what do we do?" Her voice cracked. "What if people hate us for this? What if I'm not ready?"
"We talk. We plan. We make hard choices," he said. "But we don't do any of it alone."
"I've thought about it all day," Rosie said, fingers tracing invisible patterns on his shirt. "The idea of an abortion. And it's not that I want to erase what we did, it's just… I don't know if I can do this now. With everything the way it is."
Arthur took a deep breath. "If that's what you decide, I'll be there. Every appointment, every step. But if part of you wants to keep it, even a tiny part… we'll make room for that too."
Her voice was barely audible. "I hate that we have to make this choice."
"I know." He kissed the top of her head. "But no matter what, I'm with you."
Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked them back and curled in closer to his chest. "I wish things were simpler."
"They never are," he murmured. "But I think we can survive complicated. If we're honest. If we're brave."
Rosie closed her eyes, feeling the steady thump of his heart under her cheek. "I don't feel brave."
"You are," Arthur said. "Braver than anyone I've ever known."
Outside the window, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, in the dim quiet, they held each other like it was the only thing keeping them from unraveling completely.
For now, that was enough.