Knocked Up by My Runaway Mate

“He’s gone.”

I said it aloud, standing in the doorway of our apartment bedroom. The words tasted flat, final. The only other sound was the faint, rhythmic squeak of the bathroom faucet dripping onto the edge of the porcelain sink. Right onto the blue cap of Kael’s razor foam.

My hand tightened around the plastic stick I’d been holding for the last hour. Two pink lines. Two of them.

I’d practiced saying it in my head, over and over, finding the right tone. “Kael, there’s something we need to talk about. It’s… it’s good news, I think.” Or maybe, “Hey, guess what? You’re gonna be a dad.” I’d pictured his face—that slow, surprised smile, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners before he’d pull me into a hug.

I’d left the test on the edge of the counter, right next to his things. A beacon. A confession.

Now, his things were gone.

I pushed open the bedroom door fully. The air in the living room was still, stale. His leather jacket wasn’t slung over the armchair. His wallet wasn’t on the coffee table. The key ring with the little silver fob wasn’t in its dish.

“Fuck.”

My voice was a whisper this time. I walked to the window he liked to crack open at night. It wasn’t cracked. It was shut, but not quite. The latch hadn’t caught. A chill from the evening outside nudged it, making it sway gently back and forth against the frame. He left through the front door. He closed this. But he didn’t lock it.

He didn’t care.

I pulled my phone out. My thumb found his name. I pressed call.

Silence. Then the automated voicemail greeting. “You’ve reached Kael. Leave a message.”

I didn’t leave a message. I called again. Again. Again. Seven times. The screen lit up with each attempt, a tiny digital flare of hope that died each time it connected to nothing.

The apartment felt too big. Too quiet. I grabbed my own coat, a thin wool thing that didn’t really cut the autumn wind, and headed out into the hallway.

I didn’t go far. Just to the elevator bank. Our floor was three. I leaned against the cold wall, watching the numbers above the doors. He’ll come back. He just went for a walk. For a drink. He’ll come back and I’ll tell him. And everything will be… different.

The light above the elevator shifted. Down from 12. To 10. To 8. It stopped at 3.

My breath caught in my throat—not a hitch, just a stop. The doors slid open.

And Kael Morrow stepped out.

He saw me immediately. His eyes, usually so warm, so teasing, went wide. Then blank. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say my name. He stepped back into the elevator, his hand slamming against the panel inside. His finger jabbed the ‘door close’ button.

I moved forward, my own hand reaching out. “Kael—!”

The doors slid shut. His face, a pale, frozen mask,