Drama, you called it

What kind of man calls life a mistake and grief a storm he can simply walk through, leaving behind the woman drowning in its flood? November was when I lost the heartbeat, but January is when I realized I’m still losing pieces of myself. My body still holds the baby’s DNA, even though I was only pregnant for mere weeks. Mere weeks— but it was enough. Enough to change me. Enough to be acknowledged.

But instead of holding space for the life we almost had, you dismissed it. You dismissed me. And when I reached for you with shaking hands, you said I was bringing you drama. You told me not to message you again.

You, J, get to move on like this never happened— no scars, no blood tests, no long nights wondering if the hollow ache inside will ever stop. You pushed me to be vulnerable so I told you about the miscarriage and called the shattering of my world drama?

Do you know what it’s like to stare into the quiet corners of your home, and hear the echoes of a future you’ll never get to hold? Do you know what it’s like to sit in a waiting room and hear the words “complications” when your body can’t let go of something that’s already gone? Of someone you helped create, but couldn’t help carry?

You said nothing. Not a whisper of apology, not a shred of acknowledgment. You left me with the weight of it all. And I can’t help but ask— what kind of man does this?

If one apology could reach me now, I wonder if it could rebuild the parts of me you’ve left fractured and untended.

But you’re silent. And I’m still here, bleeding truths you’ll never have to carry.