It takes me three days to tell him.
Three days of hiding the test in the bottom of my journal.
Three days of watching him stretch himself thinner and thinner across stages, spotlights, expectations.
I wait until Sunday morning.
The city still yawning, light slipping through the window in quiet gold.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed, tying his shoes for rehearsal.
"Tari."
He pauses. "Hmm?"
"I need to tell you something."
He looks up.
And in that moment, I almost don't say it.
But I promised myself—no more shrinking.
So I whisper, "I'm pregnant."
---
The silence that follows is thick. Alive.
He blinks.
Opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Then stands.
Walks to the window.
Back turned.
His voice low.
"Are you sure?"
I nod, even though he can't see.
"Is it mine?" he asks.
My stomach drops.
"Tari…"
He turns. Regret already written on his face.
"I didn't mean it like that. I just—this is a lot."
I wrap my arms around myself.
"I know."
---
He paces.
"I have the showcase tour in two months. And your radio contract—"
"I'm not asking for a plan," I cut in. "I'm asking for honesty."
He sits, head in hands.
"I'm scared."
I nod.
"Me too."
---
We sit in silence.
Then, after a long breath, he says, "I don't want to leave. But I don't know how to stay the same, either."
And there it is.
The truth between us.
Everything is changing.
And neither of us is ready.
---
The next few days pass in slow motion.
We talk—but around the truth.
We laugh—but too quickly.
We touch—but only lightly, like we're afraid too much pressure might break us.
I write.
Tari dances.
But we don't *really* see each other.
Not until Thursday night.
---
He comes home later than usual. Rain clinging to his jacket. Eyes tired.
I'm on the balcony with a mug of warm sobolo, the kind I make when I miss home.
He sits beside me.
Quiet.
Then, finally: "Do you want to keep it?"
I look at him.
"I don't know yet," I answer honestly. "But I know I don't want to decide alone."
He nods.
Then exhales. "Ayanna, I love you. But I'm not ready to be a father."
Silence.
"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," he adds.
And somehow, that hurts more than anything else he's ever said.
---
That night, we sleep back to back.
And I dream of my mother again—young, alone, holding me like I was the only anchor in her storm.
When I wake, I'm crying.
---
By morning, I've made a decision.
Not about the baby.
But about *me.*
I sit across from him at breakfast and say, "I'm not asking you to be ready. I'm just asking you to be honest—with me, and with yourself."
He nods, eyes glassy.
"And what if we grow in different directions?" he asks.
I breathe deep.
"Then we let love evolve. Even if it means letting go."
---
*Excerpt from Ayanna's journal:*
*Some chapters don't end with doors slammed or voices raised.*
*Some just close with a quiet understanding:*
*This part of us has finished becoming what it was meant to be.*
---