Sunday evening came soft and golden, the kind of light that made everything feel like it might turn out okay.

Olga had insisted we "go out"-even though we both knew it was code for "get out of the apartment before you spiral again." Joshua drove us to a low-key bar on the edge of Mitte-dim lights, worn leather booths, music loud enough to dance but not so loud you couldn't talk. No one stared. No one knew who we were. It felt... normal. I was happy, so happy that I couldn't stop laughing and my face hurts.

I couldn't drink. Three weeks pregnant meant juice, sparkling water, maybe a virgin...