The morning sunlight slipped through the rusted window frame, casting long streaks across the peeling floor. I jolted awake, my frail hand rising to shield my eyes from the blinding glare. My lashes were still damp with last night’s tears—a night spent crying until I could barely breathe, my chest raw with pain. And yet, this morning, I had to force myself up, dragging along the heavy weight of pregnancy.

My hand groped for the phone on the bedside table. The screen lit up: October 25th.

The number stabbed into my memory like a blade. Today was debt repayment day.

I cradled my belly, trying to push myself upright, my spine creaking with every movement. My trembling fingers hovered over the keypad, but before I could finish dialing, the phone vibrated—an incoming call.

“Clara, I received the forty thousand dollars you sent.” came my mother’s voice, devoid of warmth. “But… that’s all?”

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. “Mother… the client only paid fifty thousand upfront. I had to keep a small amount to get by. The rest… they’ll transfer after the birth. Once I receive it, I’ll give it to you.”

On the other end, a sigh, tinged with reproach. “Surrogacy, and you only make that little? Clara, once you deliver the baby, find a few more contracts. It’s good money, and it’s easy work. Not like it’s so hard.”

“Mom…” My voice cracked, desperate to argue back, but the line went dead. The flat tone—beep, beep, beep—was colder than any silence.

The room sank into stillness. I sat motionless, the phone slipping from my hand onto the tattered bedsheet. My eyes burned. Easy work? The backaches, the jagged stretch marks, the cold sweat that drenched me every night… all of that was nothing but “easy” in her eyes.

A vision of her rose in my memory: cigarette butts scattered on the table, an empty glass of liquor, laughter echoing among strange men. Since my father’s death, she had never once shouldered the burden of family—everything had fallen onto me. If not for my two younger siblings, I might never have sold my own body this way.

I dragged myself to the mirror in the corner. The woman staring back at me filled me with bitter scorn: skin darkened, veins bulging against the taut swell of my belly, swollen hands and feet, and an old shirt that could no longer hide my form. I tugged it down, but it instantly slid back up.

“Of course…” I let out a hoarse, mocking laugh. “Carrying twins would make anyone look like this.”

I unlocked my phone again. Balance: $10,326. My eyes flickered. At the very least, I thought, I should allow myself a little breath of air. After several minutes of hesitation, I called a taxi and decided to head to the mall.

9 a.m. – Braile Mall.

Inside a maternity boutique, my fingers brushed over each garment. Soft fabrics, soothing colors… none could lighten the heaviness inside my chest. I was trying on a dress when I suddenly felt a gaze—familiar, piercing.

The white ceiling lights spilled down, glowing across polished tiles. The click of leather shoes rang out, each step striking against my ribs. A faint trace of cologne drifted through the air—the scent of nights I once longed for so desperately that it kept me awake.

My heart clenched. Andrew.

Only yesterday I had run into him at the hospital. I had thought it coincidence. But now—again? He had a wife, a child on the way. And me—I was merely a surrogate. Instinctively, I pressed myself behind a clothing rack, my heart racing wildly. Please don’t see me… please…

But the footsteps drew closer. Andrew stopped directly in front of me. His steel-gray eyes, the handsome face that once drove me to madness with love—now etched with nothing but contempt.

“Hello… Andrew.” I spoke first, forcing my voice into composure.

My gaze flicked to the paper bag in his hand. “Buying something for your wife?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes, almost against his will, fell on my belly. For a fleeting second, his pupils faltered—then froze over again beneath that familiar frost. His lips curled, not into a smile, but into a bitter slash.

“So… you’ve found happiness for yourself after all. Clara, you don’t deserve happiness.”

I stiffened, my heart clamped tight as if crushed. To him, this pregnancy was proof of a family I had built, a life I had chosen—a life he believed I never should have.

“Andrew… what are you saying?” My voice quivered, strangled.

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twisting in a cruel, fragile smile. “Fate does enjoy its little jokes.”

No sooner had the words left him than Andrew staggered, clutching his chest, his face tightening with pain. I froze, my own heart seizing with terror at each grimace.

“Andrew… are you all right?” I whispered, my trembling hand reaching out to steady him. The image of him on a hospital bed years ago surged back—the beeping monitors, the sterile sting of antiseptic…

But he shoved my hand away, rough and cold. “Don’t pretend to care. I don’t need it.” His eyes were ice, yet behind the glint I caught a fleeting shadow of exhaustion so fragile it cut me to the bone.

A dull ache spread through my chest. How absurd… he hated me so much, yet one flicker of pain on his face hurt me more than my own suffering.

Andrew turned away and left. His footsteps faded into the murmur of the store. Shoppers still bustled, lights still gleamed, music still played on. The world had not shifted one inch—only I was left abandoned in a hollow void.

The dress slipped from my grasp and crumpled to the floor, lifeless and twisted like my own heart. I did not bend to pick it up, only stared, my eyes burning red.

“Andrew…” His name echoed in my mind, frail as a breath. The wound had not yet healed, and already a deeper fear tore it open again.

I pressed a hand to my belly and whispered into the emptiness:

“Why do you keep appearing… only to vanish? For what—except to leave my heart in ruins again?”

A strangled laugh burst from my throat, sharp and bitter. I dug my nails into my palm until tiny beads of blood surfaced. My reason screamed at me to forget, to treat him as a stranger. But my heart—my heart still trembled, fragile, at one grimace, one faltering step of his.

At last, I bent down, gathered the crumpled dress, and folded it with trembling hands. The wrinkles would not smooth—just as old wounds would not mend. I pressed it to my belly, then lifted my gaze to the large mirror at the end of the aisle.

In the glass stood a woman with a swollen belly, sallow skin, red-rimmed eyes, clutching a wrinkled dress. And strangely, that reflection stirred me to murmur:

“Perhaps… this won’t be the last time fate pulls us together.”

The thought sent me reeling once more—caught between hatred, love, and a lurking dread that our next encounter might arrive sooner than I was ready for.