I wasn't supposed to open that drawer in the first place.
She had asked me to grab the novel she was rereading - the one she swore I'd love to read after we got back from our honeymoon. She was in the kitchen, making tea, humming something soft like nothing in the world was wrong.
It was meant to be simple. Open the drawer. Grab the book. Smile, kiss her cheek, and just talk about anything random.
Eight days.
That's all that was left before she became my wife. Before we exchanged vows, sealed out forever. Before the moment I'd be dreaming about for years.
But fate has a twisted sense of timing. And our forever ended early. Eight days too early.
The book wasn't on top. So I reached beneath a stack of papers, and then... there it was. Lying just underneath the papers. A white stick with a tiny screen and two unmistakable pink lines.
I froze. Everything in my chest stopped.
Pregnancy test.
I picked it up slowly. Like it might burn me. Like if I moved too fast, the truth wouldn't register.
Positive.
And for a second, I forgot how to move, forgot where I was. All I could do was stare at it. At first, I convinced myself it wasn't hers. Maybe a friend left it. Maybe it was old. Maybe this wasn't what it looked like.
We promised to wait. She wanted to remain a virgin until our wedding night. I respected that. I honoured it. I waited. Because I loved her. Because I believed that she was worth it.
So why the hell was I holding this?
She walked in, smiling, carrying two mugs. "Found the book?" She asked lightly.
I didn't say a word. I just held it up.
Her smile faltered. The colour drained from her face. And suddenly it all made sense. Her late-night texts she said were her sister. Her distant stare. The extra-long lunch breaks. The weird way she avoided looking me in the eyes some days.
"Is this yours?" I asked.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She didn't say yes. Not with words. But the way her eyes filled with panick, the way her hands trembled as she held the mugs.
I wanted to believe there was another explanation. Maybe it was a mistake. But deep down, I already knew the truth. She didn't have to speak.
It was hers.
"We haven't even..." I didn't finish. What was the point?.
We hadn't slept together. That was her condition. She said she wanted to walk into our marriage clean. "Untouched" she'd whispered once, like it was sacred.
All this time, I thought we were waiting together.
"You told me we were waiting," I said "you said you wanted it to be special. Sacred."
"I did!" She said, her voice cracking. "I still do. It was a mistake - just once. I didn't mean for it to happen. Just one night. A stupid, stupid night"
Just once.
Just. Once.
The words dug into me like a blade.
"Just one night," I repeated bitterly. "And it left a souvenir."
She winced, like the words slapped her. Good. Because they slapped me first.
We were a week from a life we'd planned down to the scent of the candles at the reception. I'd memorised her favourite shade of white. She cried when we picked out the music for her walk down the aisle. I had a custom playlist for our honeymoon. Hell, I already wrote my vows.
And all of it meant nothing now.
"And you weren't going to tell me about it?" I asked, stepping back like her presence burned. "You were just going to marry me and hope I never found out? You were going to let me build a life on a lie."
Tears welled in her eyes, but I couldn't find the sympathy anymore. All I could feel was the betrayal flooding through me.
She stepped forward, reaching for me. "Please. I made a mistake, but I love you. It didn't mean anything - he didn't mean anything."
That was the worst part.
I believed her.
I believed she loved me.
But what do you do when the person you love is the same one who wrecked you?
I look down at the pregnancy test one last time, then let it fall from my hand. It hit the floor with a dull, final sound.
"I can't do this," I said quietly. "Not anymore."
She was crying now. "Don't walk away. Please. Not like this."
But there was nothing left to say.
No more promises. No more countdowns. No more dreams.
Just eight days of what could have been.
And a lifetime of what will never be.
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