Tropical Storm Warning

The fertility supplements sat on the nightstand like accusations—orange bottles with white labels, each **vitamin** regimented into morning and evening doses. Three years of trying. Three years of temperature tracking and ovulation kits and well-meaning relatives asking when they'd hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet.

Elena stood on the balcony of the rented condo, her **palm** pressed against the glass as rain lashed the Panama coast. Behind her, David was already asleep, his breathing rhythmic and infuriatingly peaceful. He'd taken the news better than she had—his brother's announcement at dinner, the way Sarah's hand had drifted to her swelling belly like she was protecting something precious, not just showing it off.

"You're still young," her mother had said when they'd video-called afterward. "Just keep taking your vitamins."

The irony wasn't lost on her.

**Lightning** fractured the sky, illuminating the ocean in jagged pulses. She counted the seconds until thunder shook the floor beneath her bare feet. One, two, three—close enough that the hair on her arms rose. She should be scared. Tornadoes didn't happen here, but the storm felt biblical, like something designed to wash away disappointment.

David's hand found her waist in the darkness, warm and familiar. "Come back to bed, El."

"Do you ever wish we'd just... stop?" she asked, not turning around. "No more doctors, no more charts. Just us."

He was quiet long enough that she thought he'd fallen asleep again. Then: "Every day. But I keep thinking—what if next time is the time?"

The storm broke before dawn, leaving a sky that looked bruised rather than hopeful. Elena swallowed her morning vitamins with shaking hands, watching the sunrise paint the palm fronds gold. Maybe hope wasn't about getting what you wanted. Maybe it was about continuing to want it anyway.