Sunday, November 1, 2015

11:19 p.m

This past week was almost like if I didn’t write, I didn’t exactly have to face what I am. I’m pregnant Yifan… I’m pregnant with your child and helplessly in love with you, a man, a boy who wants only my . Yet somehow, from the beginning, I just knew I that I was.

I often find my hand unconsciously coming to rest on my stomach, thumb running over the contours, like I can touch our child. Somehow, something so small gives me a sense of comfort. Even without you, I won’t be alone… I’ll have someone to take care of, to love, who will love me unconditionally back.

It doesn’t exactly take away all the pain. Not yet at least. For the first time in weeks, you looked at me at lunch. You smiled, accent thick and spoke to me. I never knew talking about the suspicious meal laid out in front of us would cause my heart to clench, and my breath to cease.

I hate that you have this effect on me.  I hate that things this insignificant make me crave you.

I wonder if it’ll be best for everyone if I don’t tell you about our child… Then you won’t feel pressured to be with me, and our child won’t know the pain that you cause, at knowing that you might never want them.

I’ve been exhausted lately. I don’t know how I’m awake now. Goodnight Yifan.

-Zitao