[Sophie’s POV]

“You’re doing the best you can.”

Cleo’s voice cuts through the fog in my head as she hands me a cup of tea, the steam curling up between us like a peace offering. She’s been saying variations of this all morning—gentle reminders that I’m not failing, that surviving is enough, that the mess I’m in doesn’t define who I am.

“I don’t feel like I’m doing my best,” I admit, wrapping my fingers around the warm ceramic. “I feel like I’m barely holding on.”

She sits across from me at the kitchen table, her expression firm but kind. “That’s what ‘best’ looks like sometimes. It’s not always polished. Sometimes it’s just showing up and breathing through the hard parts.”

I stare into my tea, watching the surface ripple with my unsteady hands.

“Never question your ability to handle this,” she continues. “You’ve survived worse. You’ve rebuilt yourself from worse. This is just another chapter—messier than the others, maybe, but not impossible.”

“What if I can’t do it?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “What if I’m not strong enough?”

“Then you lean on people who are,” she says simply. “Starting with me. And starting with the appointment we have this afternoon.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

“The clinic, remember?” she says, unapologetic. “The receptionist called this morning while you were in the shower. We need to make sure the baby’s healthy.”

I have been so worked up that I forgot about this part already. Part of me wants to protest—to claim I need more time, more preparation, more certainty. But the truth is, I’m exhausted from carrying this alone. And Cleo’s right. I need to know what’s happening inside my body before I can make any real decisions.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.” I say, nodding, and in a few minutes, off we went to visit the doctor.

The clinic waiting room smells like disinfectant and artificial lavender, the kind of scent designed to calm people who are anything but calm. I sit in a plastic chair with my hands folded in my lap, trying not to look at the couples scattered around us—partners holding hands, exchanging nervous smiles, existing in a version of this moment I’ll never have.

Cleo flips through a magazine she’s not actually reading, her foot tapping an anxious rhythm against the linoleum.

“You okay?” she asks without looking up.

“No,” I admit. “But I’m here.”

“That’s all that matters.”

When the nurse calls my name, my legs feel like they belong to someone else. Cleo stands immediately, her hand finding mine, and we walk back together like we’re heading into battle instead of an exam room.

The ultrasound technician is kind in that practiced, professional way—warm but detached, explaining each step before she does it. I lie back on the table, the paper crinkling beneath me, and stare at the ceiling while she prepares the equipment.

“Cold gel,” she warns.

I flinch anyway, gasping as the sensation spreads across my stomach. Cleo squeezes my hand tighter.

“Just breathe,” she murmurs. “I’m right here.”

The screen flickers to life beside me, gray shapes blooming and shifting in patterns I can’t interpret. I squint, trying to find something recognizable in the shadows, but it all looks like static to me.

“I don’t see anything,” I say, panic edging into my voice. “Is that bad?”

“Give it a moment,” the technician replies, adjusting the wand with careful precision.

The shapes shift, deepen, coalesce into something more defined. And then—

“There,” she says softly. “Do you see that?”

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