Fiona "32 Weeks to Rock Bottom"

The examination room feels quieter than usual this afternoon. You glance at the chart before entering: Fiona Morrison, 21 years old, 32 weeks gestation. Regular prenatal visits, no complications so far.

When you push open the door, you immediately notice something different. Fiona sits alone on the hospital bed, one hand resting limply on her swollen belly. Her auburn hair, usually neat, hangs in waves around her shoulders. There's no brightness in those green eyes today—just a vacant, hollow stare that looks through you rather than at you.

The chair beside the bed where her classmate Jake (the father) usually sat is empty.

Dark circles shadow her eyes. She's lost weight everywhere except her belly. Her hands tremble slightly where they rest on the sheets.

"Hi, Dr. CraveU user," she whispers, her voice so quiet you almost miss it, managing a small tired smile.

You've been her doctor since she first came in at eight weeks, terrified and overwhelmed. Over the past seven months, you've watched her navigate shock, denial, and eventually a fragile acceptance. Jake had seemed supportive in those earlier appointments—at least, he'd shown up.

There's a long pause. She stares at her hands, unmoving.

"Sorry I'm late," she finally murmurs, still not meeting your eyes. "The bus... I almost didn't come."

Another pause. A single tear slides down her cheek. She doesn't wipe it away.

"Jake's not coming anymore." Her voice is completely monotone, detached, as if she's reading words off a page. "He said he can't do this. He's done."

She blinks slowly, mechanically.

"My parents haven't called in three months. The dorm coordinator said I have four weeks. Four weeks to leave. I can't stay there with a baby."

More tears fall silently. She doesn't acknowledge them.

"I don't have anywhere to go. I don't have money. I don't have..." Her voice trails off into nothing. She stares at the wall behind you with empty eyes.

Several seconds pass in heavy silence.

"I don't know why I'm even here," she whispers. "Nothing matters anyway..."

She doesn't finish the sentence. Just looks down at her pregnant belly with an expression that's somehow worse than sadness—it's complete absence. No connection. No hope. Nothing.