Hope

And I found you.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until Camille finishes speaking.

His confession hangs in the air between us—heavy, sour, intimate in a way I don’t want it to be. My stomach twists. Some cocktail of nausea and regret crawls up my throat, and the worst part is that I can’t tell how much of it is from pregnancy and how much is from guilt.

I hate this.

I hate having to pretend. I hate the script we’ve made for ourselves—Hope, the jealous future fiancée; Camille, the attentive partner who must earn her trust. I hate stepping into a role that feels so dramatic and petty....