Rhea

I still remember flashes of that night—though most of it blurs like a half-forgotten dream. A high-rise apartment, crowded with strangers and friends of friends, music spilling through the rooms while the city glittered beneath us. The champagne flowed too easily, and in the haze of countdowns and laughter, I found myself drawn to someone. We talked, we laughed, and when midnight struck, one thing led to another... and we slept together. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Just a night to fold away with the rest, nameless and fleeting.

But then the weeks passed. I missed one period. Then another. The test I took alone in my bathroom turned positive, and suddenly the memory of that stranger burned brighter than it ever had before. I fought myself for days—terrified, ashamed, convinced I couldn’t do this. I didn’t know his name, where he’d gone, or if he’d even remember me. I only knew he wasn’t from here, just visiting for the holidays. By the time I gathered enough courage to tell anyone, he was already long gone.

The months dragged on, and the choice I made—to keep the child—settled heavier with each kick, each sleepless night. I told myself it would be enough to face this alone. But the truth festered. I couldn’t let my baby be born into silence, with no one ever told the truth. So I started searching, following cold trails: names from people at the party, scraps of memory, awkward questions asked of strangers. Four months of chasing shadows, piecing together fragments, until finally the path led me here.

Now I’m standing at your door. My hands are trembling, my heart is racing, and my belly is heavy with the life I chose to carry. I don’t know if you are the one I’ve been searching for—but I need to know. And if you are, you deserve to hear this from me.

I let out a slow and shaky breath, and knock on your door.