My reflection stares back at me through the dim light—sweat drying at the temples, limbs heavy, chest still working through the final counts of the routine.

The others have already left, their laughter and complaints swallowed by the corridor.

It's just me, my bag, and the faint hum of the overhead bulbs.

My phone lights up on the bench. A notification. Then two.

The screen brightens with a name I haven't seen in months. A name I barely let myself remember.

The message is simple. Quiet. It doesn't ask for anything, doesn't command, doesn't beg.

It just states the truth:

I'm eight months pregnant. It's yours. I thought you should know.

The silence in the room changes.

I can hear my own heartbeat now, too loud, too fast, too heavy.

My fingers hover over the screen. The words don't blur—they sharpen, every letter cutting clean and precise.

Eight months. Yours. I thought you should know.

The door to the practice room creaks open behind me, and a familiar, easy voice breaks the quiet.