"Are you kidding me? Why her? Why them?"
Angela clutched her stomach, eyes shut tightly. Her tears grew heavier as the reality sank in—something she could barely accept.
"Why me?" she whispered hoarsely, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Am I really this unlucky?"
A warm touch on her back slowed the trembling of her shoulders.
"Hush now, baby," Clark whispered, soft but steady. He wrapped his arms around her—tight but gentle, as though he was picking up the shattered pieces of her heart.
She couldn't remember how long she'd stayed in his arms, her face buried in the chest of the man who had never left her.
"I'm tired, Clark," she murmured between sobs. "It's too much."
Clark closed his eyes. He could feel the weight—something no words could carry. He said nothing.
He prayed silently.
"Oh God… If only I could take this pain. Let me carry it for her."
He simply let Angela cry. Sometimes, the strongest kind of love is simply being the quiet place someone can lean on.
"If only I could, I would take it. I would be the one to get hurt."
Clark's prayers fell one by one—each one as heavy as Angela's tears.
When her crying finally subsided, Clark gently helped her up. Angela didn't resist—she didn't seem to have the strength to. He brought her home.
During the ride, she felt like she was floating—the streetlights looked like distant stars.
Once they arrived at the apartment, Clark sat her down on the sofa and quickly went to warm some milk.
As he moved around the small kitchen, doubts crept into his mind.
"Am I doing the right thing? Is this enough?"
Every action he took was filled with questions and the fear that, no matter what he did, it still wouldn't be enough.
When he returned, he carefully handed her the cup.
"Baby… even just this, for now," he said softly. "I know you don't have the appetite to eat… but please, drink this. Remember, there's a baby in your tummy."
Angela took the cup slowly. Quietly. She drank—gently, as though trying to piece herself back together with every sip.
For the first time that night, a bit of calm touched her chest.
"Why do I have to go through this?"
She stared at the ceiling.
"Every time I try to get back up, another wave hits me. And each one is stronger than the last."
She couldn't help but feel afraid—afraid that next time, she wouldn't be able to stand again.
"It's like a curse. That no matter how hard I try to be whole, there's always something trying to break me."
She cradled the cold cup in her palms, like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
"Is destiny really my enemy? Or am I just someone who keeps trying even when there's nothing left to fight for?"
But even so, she knew she had to endure and accept the pain. Because in the end, she was still the one in control of her and her baby's life.
She didn't notice she had fallen asleep. Her last memory: Clark's gentle touch on her hair, the cold evening breeze, and the silence that felt like an embrace.
Clark sat staring at the ceiling, his arms resting on his knees. He hadn't slept.
Angela lay on the sofa, finally breathing calmly. He whispered into the stillness:
"I wish I could do more than just stay. I wish I could fix what broke."
When she woke up, she was alone in bed.
Her last memory was of them sitting on the sofa together.
She stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to piece together the scenes that now felt like a dream—the pain, the embrace, the prayer.
She flinched when the door opened. She didn't have to look to know who it was.
"You're awake," Clark greeted, carrying a tray of food. There was a faint smile on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"How are you?"
"Better… than yesterday."
"Good."
"Now, you have to eat."
They looked at each other for a moment. It seemed like Clark wanted to say something, but he chose to stay silent. Angela nodded.
"Thank you," she whispered.
They ate in silence. From time to time, Clark would glance at her—looks filled with concern but not asking for explanations.
And for the first time, Angela felt just how gently he held her—not because he wanted to change her, but because he was willing to wait.
To wait until she was ready to speak.
To wait until her strength returned.
And in that moment, that was enough for him.
Because sometimes, true love doesn't scream. It whispers:
I'm here. Even if you're not ready, I'll fight for us. As long as I can… for you, my love.
While tidying up the apartment, Angela felt a bit of her strength returning.
She thought of Clark—who never once complained. Always there, quiet but steady.
A memory returned to her—one night, a few months ago.
It had been raining. She had a fever. She was alone.
She hadn't asked for help, but Clark had shown up with medicine, porridge, and a damp towel.
"I know you're stubborn," he had said with a laugh, "but I can't bring myself to leave you."
And now, even in the middle of pain and brokenness, he was still there. He hadn't left.
His every action seemed to scream love.
What they were going through wasn't easy, but she was beginning to understand the value of forgiveness—especially self-forgiveness.
She knew she had to keep fighting—not just for herself, but for Clark too.
She didn't want to wait until he got tired.
She didn't want him to feel unappreciated, like his every sacrifice and prayer went unnoticed.
While putting books back on the shelf, she paused.
She noticed a tear on the edge of her favorite journal.
That was where she used to write her dreams.
It used to be filled with hope.
Now, she wanted to write again.
Starting with a blank page.
Angela picked up a pen, stared at the empty space, and then wrote:
"I'm still here. And I want to try again."
And in that moment, in the quiet space between them, Angela felt something she hadn't felt in a long time:
Hope.
Meanwhile, Clark stood by the kitchen, quietly watching her as he wiped the table.
A lingering worry stayed in him.
"Am I still right for her?"
"What if I can't heal her?"
But every time he looked at Angela, with every step she took—no matter how weak—an answer slowly came to him.
He didn't have to be her savior.
He just had to stay by her side.
When Angela finished what she was doing, she looked out the window.
The night was quiet, but there was light from the streetlamp outside.
She hadn't noticed it before.
Now, it seemed like a reminder—that even in the darkest night, light still remains.
Clark came closer, silently.
"Are you okay, baby?" he asked gently.
She nodded. "Yes… Just little by little."
Clark smiled. "No problem. No matter how slow—as long as we're together."