Chapter 2: Hospital Lights and Hard Truths

There’s something so American about seeking out a sterile, neutral space when your life implodes. Hospitals have a way of making everything feel both urgent and numb. The waiting room TV droned on about last night’s Bulls game, but all I could hear was my own heartbeat. The receptionist barely glanced at me when I asked for an appointment, my voice flat, like I was just another name on a clipboard.

"Doctor, I don’t want the baby."

The same voices that had urged me to make up with him now exploded:

The chorus got shriller, more judgmental, like the comment section on a viral post gone wrong.

"The baby’s innocent! He hasn’t done anything unforgivable—what you’re doing is cruel."

"Is this really necessary? He only messed up because he loves you too much. Why punish an innocent life? Would it kill you to just give in?"

"Our poor golden boy, how did he end up with such a cold-hearted woman? She’s acting like the villain."

"I’ll say it again—he’s only ever been with you, and only you can turn him on."

I ignored the noise, crumpled the hospital paperwork in my hand, and tossed it into the trash.

The fluorescent lights overhead hummed. My heart thudded in my chest as I walked out into the bland, linoleum-floored corridor. I wished I could crumple up all the expectations and judgments, too, but all I could manage was the paperwork. My hands shook as I tossed it, the sound oddly final in the silent hallway.

Ryan happened to walk up, blocking my way.

He appeared as if summoned by the worst timing in the world—khakis, button-down shirt, Ray-Bans perched on his head. He looked like he’d just walked off a golf course, not like a man who’d detonated his marriage the night before. His broad frame filled the narrow hallway. I stiffened, my shoulders tensing as I instinctively stepped back, hiding my hands in my pockets. For a moment, I almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

"What are you doing at the hospital?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Didn’t sleep well last night. I’ve got a headache."

The lie slipped out so easily, it scared me. My fingers pressed into my forehead as I tried to keep my composure. I couldn’t let him see how wrecked I was, not here, not under the hospital’s clinical glare.

That photo and those messages had come straight to my phone. I’d sat in the living room all night, calling him over and over, but he never picked up.

The clock above the fireplace had ticked away the hours. My coffee grew cold as I redialed again and again, staring at the blank TV screen. The city outside was alive, but my world had gone silent. Each ring felt like a lifeline he refused to catch.

According to the chorus in my head, Ryan hadn’t slept either—he’d been swirling a glass of wine, listening to my ringtone again and again, letting it ring and then hang up, savoring my anxiety, my pain, my desperation. Like only my torment could prove I loved him.

I pictured him in our sleek, glass-walled den, the city reflected in his tumbler, lips curled in a smirk as he ignored my calls. The voices in my mind painted the whole scene with a tabloid’s flair.

Hearing my excuse, Ryan’s lips curled in satisfaction. He spoke like he was doing me a favor: "Fine. I won’t pull any more all-nighters, okay?"

The patronizing tone made my skin crawl. He stood with his hands in his pockets, like some benevolent CEO handing down a pardon, never mind the wreckage behind us.

I didn’t reply, just rubbed my aching head.

The ache was more than just a headache. It was the kind of exhaustion you feel in your bones, from fighting too many battles you never signed up for. I kept my eyes down, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

As I turned to leave, I felt his eyes fixed on me, waiting for something.

His gaze was heavy, probing, like he was waiting for me to break. I could practically feel the expectation radiating off him, thick as humidity before a Midwest thunderstorm.

The voices chimed in:

"Quick, let the tears fall! Hug him, red-eyed, and say you’re jealous—tell him seeing him with another woman breaks your heart."

"Look at his eyes lighting up—he’s practically begging for it."

"If you say you love him now, he’ll be over the moon."

I took a deep breath, pretended not to notice, and kept walking.

I focused on the sound of my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, willing myself not to look back, not to give in. My chest felt tight, but I pressed forward, every step an act of will.

Suddenly, Ryan grabbed my hand, his expression tense.

His grip was hard, almost bruising. I could smell the cologne he’d swiped from the sample rack at Nordstrom, the one he wore for special occasions. It felt wrong on him now, like a borrowed skin.

"Megan, don’t you have anything to say to me?"

I met his gaze. "What do you want me to say?"

He snapped. "Are you made of stone? Sometimes I really want to crack open your heart and see what’s inside."

His words came out like a hiss, sharp enough to draw blood. In another life, maybe I would’ve flinched or cried. Now, I just felt empty.

The voices:

"Girl, if you just say your heart is full of him, you’ll calm him down."

They sounded so old-fashioned, so desperate. I almost laughed at how scripted it all was, like a bad soap opera.

Expressionless, I pulled out my phone, opened the bed photo, and held it up for him to see.

The screen glowed between us, harsh and undeniable. I watched him study it, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

"Ryan, what do you want?"

He froze, then raised his brows.

He tried to play it cool, but his eyes flickered, just for a second. The tension in the room was thick enough to chew.

"It was just a dare—truth or dare. If you’re jealous, then in the future…"

He trailed off, voice light and mocking. I could see he was waiting for me to react, to snap, to give him some proof I still cared. My blood boiled.

"Have you ever thought about my feelings?" I cut him off, my chest tight with bitterness.

The words felt like they’d been waiting forever to come out, raw and real. I didn’t care how bitter I sounded; it was the truth.

His mood seemed to lift, a trace of amusement in his voice. "It was a prank, just a joke. Do you really have to overreact?"

He said it like I was the punchline to some elaborate frat-boy gag, like none of this mattered. I looked at him, suddenly so tired I could barely keep my eyes open.