The first month passed quietly.


Elara marked the days in her journal, noting every small shift in her body, every wave of hope and doubt. She had always been attuned to rhythm—of music, of words, of emotion. But this rhythm was different. It moved through her like silence waiting to be filled.


When her period came, she was alone in the bathroom. It arrived with a dull ache and a deep breath. No tears. Just a quiet disappointment she tried not to name.


She told Michael that night as they were brushing their teeth.


“It didn’t happen,” she said, voice light but distant.


He leaned in, touched her cheek. “That’s okay. It’s not a clock. It’s a journey.”


She nodded, but the words didn’t fully land. In her heart, a small voice whispered, But what if it never happens?




The second month came with tension she didn’t want to admit. She started tracking more closely, googling symptoms late at night, watching videos about early signs, prenatal vitamins, the odds of conceiving each cycle. She didn’t tell Michael all of it—she didn’t want to burden him with the spinning.


At a music rehearsal one day, she blanked out mid-song. The chords didn’t come. Her pianist gently asked if she was okay.


“Just tired,” she replied, though she didn’t feel tired. She felt full—of thoughts she couldn’t express without cracking.




Michael found her on the balcony later, eyes wet but defiant.


“I feel like I’m already failing,” she said. “And we’re not even parents yet.”


He didn’t offer platitudes. Instead, he sat beside her, took her hand, and said, “You’re not failing. You’re trying. And that’s one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen.”


Elara buried her face in his shoulder.


“I didn’t expect to want this so badly,” she admitted. “It was easier when I wasn’t sure.”


“I know,” he said. “Wanting opens you up. But that’s what makes life full. Not easy, but full.”




Later that night, Elara opened her journal again. Under her last entry, she wrote:


“Dear little one—

Still no sign of you,

But I’m learning to wait with open hands,

Not clenched fists.”


She looked up, into the dark room, and whispered, “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.”