Eight months passed. And you cramped and bled.

You were at the hospital for four hours. You gave birth, sort of. The baby was stillborn. Eight months that teased.

You were silent on the ride home. Sam opened the apartment door. You sat on the couch and stared at the wall. He made tea in the other room and the sound of the whistle startled your dazing.

The place was stifling. You wanted to cut away all ties, and so went to the bedroom and packed up your stuff. You paused in front of Sam in the kitchen as you clutched your suitcase. You said you were taking a break.

When are you coming back?

I don't know. Maybe I won't.

The End.