"I feel so empty. So hollow."
The words slipped from Anna’s lips before she could catch them, spoken into the stillness of her apartment. The sound felt foreign in her own ears, breaking the suffocating silence that had filled the space since she’d walked through the door. She stood just inside the threshold, staring at the bare walls and the gaping void where Tayler’s belongings had been that morning. The couch where he used to drape his jacket was empty, no worn leather boots left by the door. Even the faint smell of his cologne, once woven into the air like a promise, was gone.
Her knees buckled under the enormity of it. She leaned against the counter, eyes drawn to the solitary note sitting there. The words were cruel in their simplicity.
"I’m sorry."
It was all he had left her. No explanation, no chance to argue, no hope to salvage the pieces. Just two hollow words, inked in a hand that once promised forever.
Her chest felt tight, as if the air around her had conspired to press her into nothingness. She thought she’d known the depths of abandonment before, but this was different. This was worse. She clutched the counter’s edge, as though holding on to something tangible might tether her against the pull of despair.
Her stomach churned, and her hand moved reflexively to her midsection, as though to comfort the life she’d only just discovered growing within her. But the gesture brought no solace, only a fresh wave of panic. She pressed her palms harder against the cold countertop, desperate to feel something solid.
The thoughts came fast, ruthless.
What am I going to do?
I can’t do this alone.
I can’t do this at all.
She didn’t want to cry—she had promised herself no more tears for Tayler—but they came anyway, hot and bitter. Her breath hitched, and she slid down to the floor, knees drawn to her chest, head resting against the cabinet. The cold linoleum bit into her skin through the thin fabric of her work pants. Somehow, she welcomed it. It was proof she still existed, even if only barely.
The apartment, with its secondhand furniture and faded wallpaper, had never felt like home. It was the place they’d built together—a compromise of their beginnings, a stepping stone toward the future they’d talked about late into the night. Now it was just hers, and the thought of paying the rent on her own felt impossible. She pressed her forehead to her knees. She wasn’t just alone—she was unmoored, cast adrift without an anchor.
Her phone buzzed against the countertop above her. She didn’t move to grab it. Likely her mother. Again. Anna could picture her now, seated at the kitchen table in her devout calm with rosary beads sliding between her fingers. Catherine would have seen this coming; she had never trusted Tayler, though she’d never said so directly. Her disappointment was always wrapped in sweet concern. Her father’s disappointment, on the other hand, would be sharp and unmistakable. Michael. A man of few words, but each one wielded like a hammer.
The thought of telling them about her pregnancy felt like a sentence she couldn’t bear to utter.
She pressed her palms into her eyes, trying to will away the images, the ache, the paralyzing guilt. She wanted to disappear, to melt into the cold floor and never feel anything again. Instead, she opened her eyes and stared at the door. A sudden rush of air filled her chest, the realization hitting her like a wave. She needed air. She needed something—anything—to shake this crushing, suffocating numbness.
Anna pushed herself to her feet and stumbled to the front door. The latch clicked under her trembling hand, and she pulled it open. The night hit her like an icy gust, stealing her breath for a moment. The air was sharp, bracing, and she stepped outside barefoot onto the small landing.
The world beyond was serene in its indifference. Snow fell gently, blanketing the street in quiet perfection. Christmas lights twinkled from the houses across the road, each warm glow a painful reminder of what she didn’t have, what she’d lost. Her arms wrapped around herself as if to ward off the cold—or maybe the ache.
The sharp chill against her skin cut through the fog in her mind. She drew in a long breath, letting it fill her lungs until it burned, and exhaled slowly, watching it turn to mist in the air. For a fleeting moment, she felt tethered again, just barely. The edges of her thoughts sharpened, no longer a blur of panic and despair.
Before closing the door, she glanced toward the black mailbox just to her left. At first, she didn’t register it fully. A single bloom stood out against the muted tones of snow and metal. A rose. Red as blood, vibrant and perfect, its stem wrapped in simple brown paper. Tied with twine was a small note.
Frowning, she stepped forward, the icy metal of the railing biting into her hand as she steadied herself. She reached out, hesitant, almost unwilling to disturb the fragile beauty of it. The paper crinkled softly as she unfolded the note, her breath catching when she read the words.
"You are not alone."
Her fingers lingered on the note as something stirred in her chest—a tiny flicker in the hollow place that had consumed her all evening. She looked around, scanning the quiet street, but no one was there. Only the snow falling softly, indifferent to her broken world.
As the world outside settled into a peaceful hush, she turned inward, her hand resting gently on her womb. She spoke the words again, her voice steadier, the truth of them edging closer. And as sleep softly claimed her, they lingered like a tender promise, fragile yet growing, a hope she dared to believe might one day be hers.
For the first time that evening, her tears slowed. She didn’t know what the rose meant, or who had left it. But its message pressed against her heart like a whisper she didn’t yet dare to believe.
