Everything We Didn't Say

Sarah sat on the edge of the bathtub, watching her hair collect in the drain like a dark promise she couldn't keep. Three rounds of IVF, two miscarriages, and now her body was rejecting even the most basic things—the hair vitamin supplements mocking her from the counter, their promises of luster and growth feeling like some cruel joke from a universe that had already made its position clear.

Her iphone lit up again on the bathroom counter. Mark's third message in an hour: "We need to talk about the baseball tickets. Opening day is next week."

Baseball. Of course. The baseball tickets represented everything he wanted—the suburban dream, the family they'd take to games, the normal life that kept slipping through their fingers like water.

She'd bought those tickets six months ago, back when they still believed that this time would be different. Back when they still had hope.

The cat—Barnaby—brushed against her ankle, his orange fur bright against the white tile. He was the only child they had now, the only living thing that depended on them. Mark had wanted to give him away when the fertility treatments started, something about cat dander and preparing the nursery for the baby.

Nursery. That word still tasted like ash in her mouth.

Sarah picked up her phone, swiping through the photos: the positive test that wasn't, the ultrasound with nothing but silence, the text messages from friends asking "any news?" that she'd stopped answering. The phone felt heavy in her hand, weighted with all the things she couldn't say.

"Opening day," she whispered. "He still thinks we're going."

The bathroom mirror showed her a stranger—hollowed out, pale, someone she barely recognized. Her hair fell out in clumps now, her body failing her in the most intimate way possible.

She thought about calling him, telling him it was over, that she couldn't keep doing this—couldn't keep pretending that next time would be different, couldn't keep watching him hope while she learned to hope less.

Barnaby jumped onto the counter and nudged her hand, purring like a small engine.

"Sorry, buddy," she said, scratching behind his ears. "Looks like it's just you and me again."

Her phone buzzed again. Another message from Mark.

"Please answer. I found the tickets. Are we still going?"

Sarah stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the keyboard, and realized she didn't know how to tell him that the game had been over for a long time.