Shattered Reality

IZZY.

I was sitting by my window, the pale light of my laptop screen casting a glow on my face as I worked, attempting to concentrate on work. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not shrug off the agitation building under my skin.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since that night at the function.

Two weeks ago I’d spent the night with him.

Blue Eyes.

That’s what I’d taken to calling him in my head since I didn’t know his name.

The one who'd made me forget everything—Seb, work, frustration, exhaustion—for one night. And yet, rather than disappear like a fleeting memory, he lingered. His blue eyes, his low voice, the way he made me feel… desired. Euphoric.

I sighed, staring at the half-completed report on my screen, fingers poised above the keyboard.

A resounding knock on the door snapped me out of my daydreams.

And then—

"Izzy, come on. Just talk to me."

My dreamy smile disappeared.

Seb.

For fuck's sake, couldn't he get a bloody hint?

The next morning after I’d caught him cheating, I’d boxed up all his things—every sock, every dumb cologne bottle—and left it downstairs for him to collect. I’d made no fuss about it: we were done.

But he wouldn't take no for an answer.

He texted me, called me, sent me flowers I tossed away at sight. Lies. Promises. Apologies. Always the same.

And here he was on my doorstep once more.

"Izzy, please," he called out again, his voice heavy with desperation. "Just five minutes. I have to see you. Talk to you."

I gritted my teeth, seething with anger under my skin as I marched to the door. I pulled the door open, hardly giving him time to flash his trademark, charming smile before I cut him off.

"Are you dense, Seb?" I bit out, folding my arms across my chest. "I don't want to see you. I don't want to speak to you. I don't care what you've got to say. We are done."

Seb's grin slipped. "Izzy, listen. I know I messed up, but—"

"But nothing," I cut in, coldly. "You didn't 'mess up,' Seb. You made a choice. A vile, selfish choice. And I made mine. I'm through. With you. With us."

His face twisted in regret. "Baby, I love you."

I laughed bitterly. "Bullshit. You only love yourself. Now, for the last damn time—fuck off."

Before he had a chance to say anything, I slammed the door in his face.

I stood there, breathing, listening.

After a long time, I finally heard his footsteps retreating.

Only then did I sigh shakily.

I turned away, rubbing my temples, exhaustion weighing against my bones.

Five minutes later, the doorbell rang again.

My stomach tightened. If that was Seb again, I was going to throw something at him.

But when I looked through the peephole, I saw a delivery man outside.

I let out a sigh of relief and opened the door. "Thanks."

He handed me my food, and I carried it back over to my little table by the window and put it down. The spicy noodle smell wafted up, and my stomach turned violently.

Oh, no.

A nausea wave washed over me. My throat closed up. My stomach twisted. Shit.

I just about got my chair pushed back before rushing to the bathroom.

I got down on my knees and vomited.

My body shook as I clutched the rim of the toilet bowl, panting. What the hell was wrong with her?

This wasn't the first time.

For the past week, I’d been feeling off. Exhausted. Nauseous. Food had started making my stomach churn.

A cold chill ran through me.

Something was wrong.

I rinsed my mouth, stumbled to my feet, and threw on a jacket. I needed answers.

——

The hospital waiting room was suffocating.

I sat on the stiff plastic chair, my foot drumming impatiently against the floor. The walls were too white, the fluorescent lights too harsh, and the smell of antiseptic hung in the air.

The doctor finally came in, flipping through a file. A warm-faced woman in her middle years, with kind eyes behind thin-framed glasses.

I leaned forward. "Look, I already know it's stress. I've barely been eating, I've been working too much, and my sleep pattern is all screwed up. Just tell me what vitamins or meds I need to take and—"

"Ms. Diaz."

The doctor's voice was gentle.

Too gentle.

I frowned. "What?"

The doctor flipped the file towards me, gesturing towards the scan.

"Ma’am, you're pregnant.”

The world ground to a halt.

A shrill ringing sounded in my ears.

I blinked. "I'm—what?"

The doctor smiled kindly at me. "You're two weeks pregnant."

My breath caught. Two weeks.

My mind raced back to the last time I’d had sex.

And then it hit me.

Blue Eyes.

The event.

The one-night stand.

My fists clenched in my lap as panic clawed its way up my throat. Oh God.

How could I have been so irresponsible? How could I have let this happen when my life was already a goddamn mess?

I didn't hear the rest of what the doctor said.

Somehow, I was able to stammer out a thank you, grab my bag, and walk out into the cool evening air.

I just stood, staring blankly ahead of me, lost.

My hands shook. I bit my lip hard enough to hurt, struggling to hold the growing wave of fear inside.

What in the world was I supposed to do?

I could barely look after myself. How was I supposed to look after an entire other human being?

My phone rang.

I answered it. "Hello?"

A concerned voice spoke on the other end.

"Ms. Diaz, this is Lisa from St. Augustine's Nursing Home. It's regarding your aunt Winnie."

My stomach sank.

Lisa paused. "Her condition took a turn for the worse today. She suffered a relapse. The doctors say she requires immediate surgery."

I became lightheaded.

“If we don’t proceed soon… she might not make it,” Lisa added softly.

My pulse roared in my ears.

“How much?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

Lisa hesitated before saying, “Fifty thousand dollars.”

My heart stopped.

A tight, crushing pressure wrapped around my chest.

I didn’t have that kind of money.

Not even close.

My throat felt dry. “I—I’ll find a way. I’m coming.”

I ended the call with trembling fingers.

Hailing down a cab, I climbed in, my mind spiraling.

My body was stiff, my hands clammy as I stared out the window, watching the buildings blur past.

My world was falling apart.

Pregnant.

Broke.

Desperate.

How the hell was I supposed to fix any of this?