Before the dawn

Anne was in the labour room, alone—but she didn’t mind. The silence helped her organize the chaos in her mind, giving her a brief moment to face the situation she found herself in. As the hours passed, irritation and frustration built up inside her, simmering with every passing contraction. The baby. The thought of it made her skin crawl. She had never seen herself as a mother, never imagined she would become someone who would bring life into the world. Life had a way of making mockery of all her convictions. The contractions were getting sharper, but still, there was no sense of excitement, no surge of joy, as her parents had promised her there would be. She felt only the sting of pain, sharp and unforgiving, and a deep, gnawing regret. Regret that she had made this decision at all—regret before even becoming a mother.

Mark, on the other hand, stood outside the door, his mind spinning, unsure if he was ready for what was about to happen. He never really believed the day would come—the day they would be forced to face the gravity of their shared mistake. Would this make them a family, or was it just another desperate attempt to solve something they hadn’t understood? He knew Anne never wanted this child—not because she didn’t love him, but because she was afraid. Afraid of living things. Afraid of the world that demanded so much from her.

He loved her. He was certain of that. And somewhere beneath her guarded walls, he knew she loved him, too—at least as much as she could. They had both lived isolated lives, pulling each other into a quiet orbit, unsure if what they had was love, or something else entirely. Perhaps it was simply a need for connection—something, anything to cling to in a world that felt empty. They had found each other, not through passion, but through some strange, unseen thread that bound them. They hated each other sometimes, despised each other's flaws, but they worshipped each other just as fervently because it was all they had. And now, they were expecting a child—a girl, probably. Or at least, that was what Mark hoped for.

His thoughts were a whirlpool of confusion and doubt as he waited outside the room. How could he approach her now? What was he supposed to say? He loved her. He loved the child. Not only that, but he would do anything, anything to make their lives better—but was it enough?

After speaking with the doctor, he made his decision. He needed to do something, even if it was small, even if it seemed meaningless. He gathered some clothes, a bar of dark chocolate, and walked into the room. It felt foolish, but at that moment, it was the only thing he could think of to do.

When he entered, he found Anne pacing the room, her movements stiff, almost robotic—each step a reflection of the pain that she couldn’t escape. The doctor had said it would be hours before the labour began, but to Mark, it felt like time was crawling, every minute stretching into eternity.

“How long have you been walking?” he asked, his voice soft, hesitant.

“Not long. I was lying down earlier. I need to move more. It helps with the pain, and I can feel it getting closer… When did you arrive?”

“Just a few minutes ago. I spoke with the doctor. Everything seems good. They’ll keep monitoring your condition. You could be giving birth tonight.”

Anne stopped walking, her eyes meeting his, hollow and distant. She was moving, yet she was still somewhere far away. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes told a different story. She was struggling, and Mark knew it.

“Anne…” His voice caught, as if he, too, had forgotten how to speak.

She didn’t respond right away. The silence between them stretched, heavy and unspoken, like a wall they couldn't break. She nodded, but it was not in agreement. It was mechanical, empty.

“I don’t know what you’re feeling right now,” Mark said quietly, his words tentative, as if he was afraid to shatter something fragile between them. “I’ve never known. But I know this is hard for you—even though you never said it. I feel it. You have to let me in, Anne. Please, at least tell me what’s going on inside your head. I know you didn’t want this baby, but… I don’t understand why you kept it. I need to know.”

She turned away from him, her gaze wandering over the room, distant, as if she could escape the conversation by looking at the walls.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she murmured, her voice distant, detached. “I don’t have an answer. Nothing makes sense. It’s not logical. I just… I’ve never been the motherly type. Maybe that’s why I feel like this. I didn’t have the courage to do anything else. I was scared. I still am. But now, I’m here. I’m just here. And I don’t want you to think you’re responsible for any of this. I’m sure it’ll get better after the baby comes. But right now, I just need to be alone with this. I need time.”

Mark’s chest tightened. He knew she wasn’t lying—but it felt like a half-truth, a piece of something bigger that she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—speak aloud. Perhaps she didn’t even know what it was. He couldn't push her any further. But there was a quiet hope inside him—a hope that someday, perhaps, she would let him in. Maybe one day, she would open up.

Without saying another word, he gently took her arm. They began walking together around the room, their steps echoing in the emptiness. They didn’t speak, but they understood. They needed each other. The weight of it hung between them—silent, unspoken. The pain, the uncertainty. But for now, they were here, together.

Anne’s contractions were becoming more frequent, each one bringing her closer to the unknown. Her breathing quickened, her chest rising and falling with the effort. The pain wasn’t even the worst part—it was the fear, the terror of what was coming next. The unknown.

Mark could see the change in her, the strain of it all. She was slipping into something else, a place between pain and fear. He guided her back to the bed and helped her lie down slowly.

“I’ll go find the doctor,” he said, his voice low, as though he were afraid of disturbing the fragile space between them. “I’ll be back soon.”

Anne looked at him, her eyes weary. She nodded, slowly, too exhausted to speak. There was nothing more to say. She felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her, draining her strength with every breath. Talking, thinking—everything seemed to make the pain worse. She just had to be still, breathe, and wait.

She shifted slightly, trying to find some comfort in the bed. Seconds dragged into minutes, and she knew—deep down—that soon, everything would change.

The labour was coming.