Chapter Text
Bleu had never intended to take the test.
It was one of those impulse buys from months ago, tossed beneath the sink like all the other “what if” things she never thought she’d use.
But that late evening, in the cavernous silence of the penthouse— broken only by the faint, steady hum of the air conditioner mingling with the restless roar of New York’s streets far below, it being too early to sleep and too late to do much else, she’d remembered it.
She hadn’t been feeling different, not really. Just a bit off. A little hungover despite no drinking and slightly sore boobs. So out of curiosity, maybe even boredom, she’d taken the test; tossing it on the counter and washing her face while it processed.
When the little pink lines came into focus, she’d stared at the test, her breath catching in her throat. Her first reaction was to laugh.
It wasn’t a real laugh. It was the kind that comes out when the body doesn’t know what else to do.
Pregnant? Her? Now? With Yelena gone for weeks on another one of her endless business trips, the kind that left Bleu alone in this oversized apartment, rattling around like a ghost in a house that used to feel like home?
It was absurd.
So, she laughed it off, tucked the test under a magazine on the nightstand, and decided to pretend it didn’t exist.
She’d gone about her evening with a strange, forced lightness, as if she could change the truth by keeping busy.
She’d decided to make dinner. Grilled salmon and roasted potatoes. She hummed lightly as she cooked and cleaned, even set a placemat for Yelena, something she usually did out of habit.
Despite that, Bleu ate alone at the dining table; the silence deafening, save only for the clink of her fork against the plate. She told herself she was fine, that the test was probably a fluke, that she’d deal with it later. After all, Yelena would be back in a few days, and they could…
They could what?
Talk? Fight? Pretend everything was normal? The thought made her stomach twist, but she pushed it down, focusing on the rhythm of chewing and swallowing.
Dinner finished, she reached for the bottle of red wine on the counter, a habit as familiar as breathing. She poured a generous glass, the liquid glinting dark and rich, and brought it to her lips. The cool rim touched her mouth, and she paused.
The realization hit her.
She couldn’t drink.
Not if…
Her hand trembled, the wine sloshing slightly, and she set the glass down with a clatter. The lightness was gone now, replaced by a creeping panic that clawed at her chest.
Bleu stumbled to the bathroom, her bare feet slapping against the floor. The cabinet under the sink was a mess of half-used products and forgotten odds and ends, but there they were: a small stash of pregnancy tests, bought in bulk months ago during a fleeting moment of paranoia after a late period.
She tore open the first box, her hands shaking as she followed the instructions she already knew by heart. She waited, staring at the tile floor, counting seconds in her head. The test developed, and there it was again: positive. Two lines, clear as day.
Another test.
Positive.
A fourth one.
Positive.
A fifth, six— God, why the hell did she have so many?
Her knees gave out. The tile was cold and uncaring under her skin as she sank to the floor, breath hitching before the first sob burst out of her. She slammed her fists against the bathtub, once, twice, again—knuckles reddening, muscles tensing with each hit like that could somehow make it untrue. Anger and grief and confusion all fought for dominance in her chest, each one choking out the other until she couldn’t even tell what she was feeling. Only that it hurt. So much.
Exhausted, she slumped against the bathtub, her back pressing into the cold edge. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her stomach as if to shield the thing— the life— she couldn’t yet comprehend. Tears streamed down her face as her sobs turned to quiet, shuddering breaths. Her mind raced with what-ifs and whys.
“Please…” she whispered, not even sure what she was asking for.
But she was thinking of Yelena.
What would Yelena say? Would she even care? They’d fought so much over the years; Drifted so far, they’d stopped pretending they weren’t. But at that moment, Bleu didn’t care about all that. All she wanted was Yelena.
Her coming through the door, slamming her suitcase down and saying, “What now?” like she always did when they were fighting. Her voice. Her warmth. Even if it came with exhaustion, with bitterness, with the familiar bite of resentment. Even if they hadn’t said “I love you” in years. Even if they’d been dancing around the word “divorce” like it wasn’t hovering over their heads. She didn’t care.
She just didn’t want to be alone.
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing Yelena to appear, to walk through the door and fix this, to hold her and tell her it would be okay. But the apartment stayed silent, the bathroom a claustrophobic cage of her own making. Her body trembled, her limbs heavy with exhaustion, and at some point, the panic consumed her entirely. She didn’t notice when her eyes fluttered shut, when her body gave in to the weight of it all. She fell asleep there, curled into herself on the bathroom floor, her cheek pressed against her knee, her arms still wrapped around her stomach.
When she woke up hours later, the sky outside had gone completely dark. Her body ached from the awkward position. Her limbs were sore, her neck stiff, and the cold of the tiles had seeped into her bones.
She blinked groggily, the bathroom coming into focus—the scattered test wrappers, all the products she’d taken out the sink cupboard in a frenzy, the sticks piled in the trash can. Her stomach churned, nausea from the reality staring back at her. She pushed herself up, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she might unravel if she moved too fast.
She’d stripped and turned on the shower absentmindedly, not bothering to adjust the temperature. She stood idly under the stream, arms slack, head down, letting the scalding water pour over her. Her skin burned, but she barely felt it.
The bathroom was still fogged up when she stepped out, warm air clinging to her like a second skin, even as her insides felt like ice. She stood there for a moment, dripping onto the bathmat, her eyes unfocused, not bothering to towel off properly—just enough to stop the dripping. Her hair stayed wet. She didn’t care that it would shrink by morning, and she'd have to detangle and straighten it all again.
Her body felt heavy, like it wasn’t entirely hers anymore, and the thought made her stomach lurch again. She wrapped the towel around herself more out of habit than necessity, and padded into the closet, her wet footprints trailing across the floor.
In the dim light, she opened a dresser drawer, her fingers brushing past her own neatly folded pyjamas until they landed on Yelena’s old button-up shirt, tucked away in the back. The navy blue one with the fraying cuffs and the little paint stain on the left sleeve from when they’d tried to paint the nursery themselves. Bleu remembered Yelena wearing it constantly during their first year together. Always rolled sleeves, unbuttoned low, collar popped if she was trying to annoy Bleu. Yelena used to say she liked it because it “made her arms look good.” Bleu liked it because Yelena did.
Yelena had told her to toss it years ago. “I don’t wear it anymore,” she’d said, straight-faced, holding a garbage bag full of clothes. “No point in keeping it.”
Yelena was like that— practical, always cutting away the excess, whether it was old clothes or bothersome emotions. But unlike her better half, Bleu was far too sentimental. She’d kept the shirt, hidden away, for nights like this—when Yelena was gone and she felt too alone.
She hadn’t worn it in months, though. Not since fighting had turned into their MO. The rough patch had started after the miscarriage four years ago, a loss that had cracked something fundamental in both of them.
Bleu slipped the shirt on now, her fingers fumbling with the buttons, the fabric cool against her still-damp skin. It used to hang loose on Yelena. On Bleu, everywhere except the chest area, it felt like a blanket. It hung loose on her frame, the sleeves too long, the hem brushing her thighs.
She crawled into bed, but much like everything else today, it felt too big. The sheets were cold.
The apartment was freezing, as always. Yelena liked it that way, kept the AC cranked until it felt like a Russian winter, and Bleu never minded much. She’d always been cold, even before tonight, but this wasn’t the kind of cold you could fix with a thermostat, or any number of blankets, really.
Bleu moved through the apartment, gathering every blanket she could find—the quilt from the couch, the throw from the armchair, even the scratchy wool blanket Yelena had bought on a whim during a trip to Maine.
She piled them onto the bed, a fortress of warmth against the chill that seemed to radiate from her bones. She crawled into bed, pulling the duvet up to her chin, burrowing under the layers until she was swaddled like a child. Like a scared, lonely, pregnant child.
The weight of the blankets pressed against her, grounding her just enough to keep her from spiralling again. Four years ago, she would’ve been curled into Yelena’s side, a hand on her thigh, breathing in her warmth, her reassurance.
She brought the cuff of the shirt to her face. Took a deep breath, hoping for a trace of Yelena—her cedarwood perfume, maybe, or the faint musk of her skin. But all she got was the sterile scent of detergent, the last remnant of Yelena washed away in the laundry. Her chest tightened, and she let her hands drop onto the pillow.
Her eyes welled again.
It hadn’t always been like this.
Her mind drifted back to the miscarriage, to the way it had rewritten their lives. They’d been so excited at first, painting the spare room a soft pink, arguing over names. Yelena really liked the name Pearl; Bleu wanted to name her Pink, after a colour, just like she had been named. Yelena teased her saying it was silly but ended up agreeing anyways.
But then an off feeling came, and the bleeding started. Bleu would never forget the pain that froze her whole body from minute to minute— pain which she later found out was contractions, because she was experiencing the pain of labour. She was 12 weeks and 1 day, just out the first trimester. She bled so much they had to change her diapers multiple times. She had to stay 3 nights at the hospital, because it was an infected foetus, and she was with infected blood. It was a terrible experience, to say the least.
Yelena, who hated emotions, who froze when faced with anything too raw, had tried so hard for Bleu. She’d sit with her for hours, stroking her hair, finding words that didn’t come naturally. She’d held Bleu every night she cried herself raw, read to her when she couldn’t sleep.
Once, when Bleu had been too numb to get out of bed, Yelena had cooked her favourite soup—burning it slightly, because Yelena was hopeless in the kitchen—and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the bed, coaxing her to eat. “You’re still here,” Yelena had said, “I can’t lose you too.”
She even started carrying tissues in her pockets “just in case” Bleu broke down in public, which she often did. Bleu remembered once sobbing in a grocery store aisle because the baby formula section was too close to the dairy. Yelena just picked up the formula can, chucked it halfway across the aisle and muttered “fucking capitalism” before walking Bleu out, arm around her waist. They’d ended up eating ice cream in the car in complete silence.
It was one of the best nights of that year.
But time wore on, and so did they.
Grief wasn’t a straight line, and Bleu’s had been a labyrinth. She’d cry over small things like forgetting cheese in her ramen or misplacing her keys. Yelena had been patient at first, but Bleu could see the strain in her eyes, the way her jaw tightened when Bleu’s tears started again.
By the end of year one, Bleu was still falling apart. She’d stopped getting out of bed. Her work sat unfinished. Some days she couldn’t even shower. And Yelena… well, Yelena kept moving. She started taking longer business trips, coming home later and later until “late” turned into “not at all,” filling the silence between them with absence.
Bleu tried to understand. After all, Yelena was grieving too, in her own way. But she had always been the strong one, the stoic one. Bleu needed her.
But she wasn’t there.
Or rather, she was. In body. Not in spirit.
She still showed up when Bleu begged. Still picked up the phone. Still drove back at 2AM when Bleu had panic attacks. But there was always something in her face. A look.
Yelena would come home, drop her suitcase by the door, and look at Bleu with that expression. It was subtle, a flicker of exhaustion, maybe resentment, like Bleu’s neediness was a weight she couldn’t carry anymore. Bleu wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, projecting her own fears onto Yelena’s face, but it felt real enough to cut.
Bleu never mentioned it. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful. But it made her quieter. Needier. More careful.
They started fighting more. Petty things. Big things.
They fought over everything and nothing at all.
One night, maybe a year and a half after the miscarriage, Bleu had begged Yelena to stay home for once, to skip the next trip. “I need you here,” she’d said, her voice high-pitched and cracking.
“Why can’t you see that I’m doing this for us, Bleu?” Yelena had snapped, “Pink is gone and there’s nothing we can do about it. You think I don’t feel it too? But what’s the use of feeling Bleu? Someone has to keep things together.” The words had stung, implying Bleu was the one falling apart, dragging them both down.
That was one of the first times Bleu had seen Yelena cry. She didn't burst into sobs like Bleu did, but her jaw had trembled, and her eyes glassed. And she’d left. Slipped out the front door without a word and stayed gone for three days.
After that Yelena stopped knowing what to say. Or maybe she just stopped trying.
Now, lying in bed, wrapped in blankets and Yelena’s shirt, Bleu felt the weight of those years pressing down on her. The positive tests in the bathroom were a cruel reminder of what they’d lost and what they’d become. She didn’t know if this baby—if it was real, if it would even stay—could fix anything. She wasn’t sure she wanted it to. All she knew was that she was alone, and the thought of facing this without Yelena made her want to disappear.
Her eyes stung, but the tears didn’t come this time. She was too tired.
God, she just wanted Yelena to walk in. Just once. Throw her bag down, sigh at the mess, climb into bed and press her firm hands against Bleu’s cheeks.
Say “Hey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” But Yelena wasn’t coming home in days. And maybe not even then—not in the way Bleu wanted her to.
She lifted her hand and pressed the shirt sleeve against her nose and sniffed again.
Still detergent.
*****
The morning light crept through the curtains, a pale, hesitant glow that did little to warm the room.
Bleu was still in bed, buried under the mound of blankets she’d gathered, her body curled tightly into itself. Yelena’s old button-up shirt clung to her, the fabric wrinkled from her restless tossing.
She’d been awake for hours.
Maybe she’d slept for two hours, maybe not at all—she couldn’t tell. Her body ached from staying curled up too long. Her throat was sore. Her head throbbed in a dull, steady rhythm that matched the buzzing in her chest.
The penthouse was quiet, save for the faint hum of the AC and the occasional sound of birds chirping.
The sound of the front door opening startled her, a soft thud followed by the familiar jingle of keys hitting the entryway table.
Yelena was home.
Bleu’s heart lurched, a mix of relief and dread twisting in her chest. She didn’t call out, rather she just lay there, clutching the sleeve of Yelena’s shirt.
She heard the suitcase wheels roll past the hallway, the muted sigh Yelena always let out when she took off her boots. She paused in the living room, then the kitchen, as if checking for signs of life. The fridge door opened. Closed.
Then nothing for a while.
Bleu could picture her: suitcase by the door, her hair rather messy, her face etched with the exhaustion of a long flight and the weight of uncertainty at what version of Bleu she was going to find.
The bedroom door opened a crack.
“Bleu?” Yelena called out. Her voice was rougher than usual. sleep-deprived and travel-worn.
Bleu didn’t answer.
Eventually, the bedroom door creaked open all the way, and Bleu squeezed her eyes shut, not ready to face her. Yelena stood in the doorway, suitcase still beside her, dressed in her standard post-trip uniform—black slacks, wrinkled white button-up, sleeves half-rolled, hair messy. She looked the same, but older somehow. Tired in the bones.
Yelena didn’t say anything at first, and Bleu could sense her standing there, probably taking in the sight of the blanket fortress, the way Bleu was half-hidden beneath it like a child hiding from the world.
She felt the air shift as Yelena stepped inside, the faint scent of her cedarwood perfume cutting through the stale chill of the room.
The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, until Yelena finally spoke.
“Bleu,” she said again. “You okay?”
Bleu didn’t answer right away. She opened her eyes but kept her face turned toward the pillow, her fingers tightening around the edge of the duvet. She didn’t know how to start, didn’t know how to say the words that had been choking her for the past few days.
Pregnant. Again. After everything.
She wanted to tell Yelena, to spill it all. The tests, the way she panicked, the way she’d sobbed against the bathtub until she passed out—but the words felt too big.
Yelena exhaled through her nose. She glanced around the room like the answers might be lying on the dresser or written on the walls
“Did something happen? Are you sick or something?” she asked. There was a note of forced casualness in her voice. Like she didn’t know whether she was allowed to be worried.
Yelena moved closer, her feet patting softly against the hardwood. Bleu heard the rustle of her jacket as she shrugged it off, the faint clink of her watch as she set it on the dresser. Then the bed dipped slightly as Yelena sat on the edge, her weight shifting the blankets.
Bleu could feel her presence, but there was a distance in it, like they were on opposite sides of a glass wall.
She finally turned her head, meeting Yelena’s eyes for the first time in weeks. Yelena looked tired, her sharp features softened by dark circles, her mouth set in that familiar line—half-concerned, half-guarded, like she was bracing for another fight.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” Yelena said, her voice softer now, a flicker of something like nostalgia in her eyes. She reached out, her fingers brushing the sleeve, and Bleu flinched, not because she didn’t want the touch but because it felt too much like the past, like the Yelena who used to hold her when things fell apart.
“Yeah,” Bleu mumbled, retreating into herself, her voice hoarse. She sat up slowly, the blankets pooling around her waist, and tucked her knees to her chest. Yelena’s brow furrowed, her gaze searching Bleu’s face.
“You look like hell,” she said, blunt as always, but there was a gentleness there too
“Did you sleep at all?”
Bleu shook her head weakly.
“You eat?”
Bleu gave the smallest shrug.
Yelena exhaled hard and ran a hand down her face. “You scare the shit out of me.”
“I’m sorry,” Bleu said dryly.
“What’s going on?”
Bleu’s throat tightened, and she looked away, her eyes landing on the nightstand where the first pregnancy test was still hidden under the magazine. She thought about the bathroom, the pile of positive tests in the trash, the way her world had tilted off its axis last night.
She wanted to tell Yelena everything, to pour her heart out to her, but the memory of their fights stopped her.
The miscarriage had broken them in different ways. Bleu had drowned in her grief, while Yelena had locked hers away, retreating into work. They’d tried to hold on at first, but the arguments had only grown worse over time.
One night, Bleu had screamed at Yelena for leaving again, for choosing her job over them. “You’re running away!” she’d yelled, tears streaming down her face. Yelena had stood there, fists clenched, and said, “Maybe I am. Because I can’t keep doing this.” The words had hung between them and Bleu had spent the next week wondering if Yelena would come back at all.
Now, with Yelena sitting on the bed, so close but still so far, Bleu felt that same fear creeping in. What if she told her about the baby and Yelena pulled away again? What if this was the thing that finally broke them for good? But the alternative—keeping it to herself, carrying it alone—was unbearable.
She took a shaky breath, her hands twisting in the hem of the shirt. “I took a test last night,” she said, the words spilling out before she could stop them. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“A pregnancy test. It was positive.” Yelena froze, her lips parted slightly and her eyes widened just enough to betray her shock.
For a moment, neither of them moved, the silence so thick it felt like it could choke them. Bleu watched her, waiting for something—anger, disbelief, anything—but Yelena just stared, her expression unreadable.
“Positive?” Yelena repeated finally, her voice flat, like she was testing the word. “You’re sure?” Bleu nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She gestured vaguely toward the bathroom. “I took… a lot of them. They’re in the trash. All positive.”
Yelena’s gaze flicked toward the bathroom door, then back to Bleu. She leaned forward slightly, her hands clasping together as if to steady herself. “Okay,” she said, but it sounded more like she was talking to herself. “Okay.”
There was a brief silence before Yelena looked at her. “How long have you known?”
Bleu let out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Not sure, a few nights at least.”
There was a brief silence.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
Yelena didn’t say anything. Her jaw was tight. Her eyes kept flicking from Bleu’s face to the bathroom door and back again, like she was trying to process it in pieces.
Bleu went on, quieter now. “I thought about calling you. But I didn’t know if you’d even pick up. And it felt… wrong. Saying it over the phone.”
Yelena didn’t respond.
Bleu waited, her heart pounding, expecting Yelena to say something, to ask questions or offer comfort or even get angry. But Yelena just sat there, her jaw tight, her eyes distant, like she was already halfway out the door again.
It was the same look she’d had after the miscarriage, when Bleu would cry and Yelena would try to fix it with practical solutions—doctor’s appointments, meal plans, anything to avoid the mess of emotions. Bleu had needed her to feel it, to sit in the pain with her, but Yelena had always been better at building walls than tearing them down.
“Say something,” Bleu whispered, her voice breaking. “Please.”
Yelena’s eyes snapped back to her, and for a moment, Bleu thought she saw a flicker of the old Yelena—the one who’d held her through the worst nights, who’d tried so hard to be what Bleu needed.
But then Yelena’s jaw tightened, and she looked away, her hands flexing in her lap. “I don’t know what to say, Bleu,” she admitted, her voice low. “This is… a lot.”
Bleu’s chest ached, the weight of those words pressing down on her. She wanted to scream, to beg Yelena to stay, to be here, to not let this break them again. But she was too tired. All she could do was pull the blankets tighter around herself.
Yelena reached out, hesitating, then rested a hand on Bleu’s knee. It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot, but it was something. Maybe a crack in the walls they’d both built, maybe a step toward understanding. For now, it was all Bleu had.
But then Yelena’s hand slipped away, retreating to her lap.
Yelena leaned back, her shoulders stiff, her eyes fixed on some point beyond Bleu. The air in the room grew heavier, the silence stretching thin.
Bleu’s throat tightened, her fingers twisting in the hem of the button-up. She wanted Yelena to say something, to bridge the gap that had been widening for years. But Yelena’s face was closed off, her jaw set in that familiar way that meant she was already pulling back, already locking herself away. Bleu’s heart sank, the hope she’d been clinging to crumbling like ash. She couldn’t take more silence.
“Yelena,” Bleu said, her voice sharper than she intended, cutting through the quiet. “Don’t do this. Don’t just… shut down.”
Yelena’s eyes flicked back to her, a flash of something— defensiveness? Maybe. Or guilt— crossing her face. “I’m not shutting down,” she said, her tone clipped, the words coming too fast. “I just… I need a second to process this, Bleu. You drop this on me the second I walk in the door—”
“Drop this on you?” Bleu’s voice rose, her hands dropping the blanket to gesture wildly. “I didn’t plan this, Yelena. I didn’t ask for this. I’m freaking out here, and you’re just sitting there like it’s nothing!”
Yelena’s jaw tightened, her hands clenching in her lap. “I didn’t say it’s nothing. But what do you want me to do, Bleu? You want me to have all the answers right now? I just got off a thirteen-hour flight, and you’re hitting me with… this.” She gestured vaguely toward Bleu’s stomach.
Bleu’s eye twitched like Yelena’s words had grazed her skin. “This,” she repeated, her voice low, trembling with hurt. “You mean a baby. Our baby. Or is that too much for you to deal with, too?” Bleu laughed bitterly.
“I didn’t mean that the way you think—”
“No, you did,” Bleu cut in. “You meant it exactly like that. You think I’m too much. You’ve always thought I was too much, and you’re tired of cleaning up after my breakdowns.. Just say it.”
Yelena rubbed her temple. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Then say something, Yelena. Anything. What are you feeling? Do you want this baby or not? Do you want me?”
Yelena didn’t answer right away. That was answer enough.
The room seemed to shrink, the cold air from the AC biting at Bleu’s exposed arms, even through the layer of Yelena’s shirt.
She could feel the argument building, the same way they always did— words piling up like kindling, ready to catch fire. It was the same pattern they’d fallen into since the miscarriage, since the first time Yelena had come home from a trip to find Bleu curled up in bed, eyes red, unable to explain why she couldn’t just move on.
“Wow,” Bleu whispered. “You’re really gonna sit there and say nothing?”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ve been thinking for four years. You haven’t said shit.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was losing our baby, but here we are.”
Yelena flinched.
And just like that, the temperature in the room dropped.
Bleu regretted it the second she said it—but she didn’t take it back. She couldn’t. It was already out in the open.
Yelena stood up, pacing a few steps toward the window before turning back, her hands raking through her hair. “You think I don’t know what this means? You think I’m not freaking out, too? But I can’t just—” She stopped, her hands dropping, her eyes flashing with frustration. “I can’t do this the way you want me to, Bleu. I never could.”
Bleu pushed the blankets off, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor. She stood, Yelena’s shirt hanging loose on her, the sleeves slipping over her hands as she crossed her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, her voice shaking but sharp. “You can’t deal with me? With this? Because that’s what it sounds like, Yelena. Like you’re already halfway out the door.”
Yelena’s face hardened, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t start that. I’m here, aren’t I? I came back. But you—” She gestured toward Bleu, her hand slicing through the air. “You act like I’m the one who broke us, like it’s all on me. You don’t think I’m hurting, too? You don’t think I remember what happened?”
“You don’t get to use that against me. You weren’t the one who felt it, Yelena. You weren’t the one who—” She stopped, her voice cracking, tears burning at the edges of her eyes. She wouldn’t cry, not now. She couldn’t give Yelena that.
Yelena’s face softened for a split second, regret flickering in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “I’m not using it against you,” she said, quieter now, like she was holding herself back. “I’m just saying… we’ve been through this before, Bleu. And it nearly killed us. I don’t know if I can do it again.”
The words landed like a blow. She stared at Yelena, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break through her chest. “So that’s it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re just… done? You’re not even going to try?”
Yelena’s shoulders slumped, and for a moment, she looked smaller, like the weight of everything was finally catching up to her. “I didn’t say that,” she said, but her voice was tired, defeated. “I just… I need time, Bleu. I need to think. And you’re not giving me any space to do that.”
“Space?” Bleu laughed, “You’ve had nothing but space, Yelena. You’ve been gone for weeks, months, years. I’ve been here, alone, while you’re off playing corporate hero. And now, when I need you—when we might actually have a chance to—” She stopped, her hands balling into fists, the fabric of Yelena’s shirt bunching under her fingers. “You’re telling me you need space?”
Yelena’s eyes flashed, and she took a step toward Bleu, her voice rising again. “Don’t act like I’m the only one who’s checked out, Bleu. You’ve been drowning in this for years, and I’ve tried to pull you out, but you keep dragging me down with you. You always say I’m the one who leaves, but you don’t see how often you push me out. I can’t—” She stopped, her hands clenching at her sides, her chest heaving. “I can’t keep doing this.”
“Then go,” Bleu said, her voice quiet but steady, the words cutting through the air like a blade. “If you can’t do this, then go. I’m not begging you to stay anymore.”
Yelena stared at her, her expression a mix of anger and something that looked like pain. For a moment, Bleu thought she might stay, might step forward and close the distance between them. But then Yelena turned, grabbing her jacket from atop the seat where she had left it.
“Fine,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. “I’ll go.”
She walked out of the bedroom, her footsteps echoing against the hardwood, and Bleu stood frozen, listening as the front door opened and slammed shut. The apartment fell silent again, the AC humming, the cold wrapping around Bleu like a second skin. She sank back onto the bed, pulling the blankets around her, Yelena’s shirt still clinging to her body. The scent of detergent filled her lungs, and she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the ache, the fear, the unbearable weight of being alone again.