I told him on a Tuesday. After the test came back negative. After the three days of quiet terror had passed and my body was mine again and the danger was over and there was no reason to tell him at all except that the guilt was eating me alive.
We were at his apartment. Kitchen table – the one with the scratches. I set the test on the counter between us like evidence and watched his face cycle through confusion, recognition, and something I'd never seen on him before.
Hurt.
Not anger. Not the cold shutdown I'd braced for. Genuine, uncalculated hurt – the kind that made his voice go quiet instead of hard.
"When."
"Last week. I was late. I took the test Friday."
"Friday." He repeated it like he was doing math. "That was five days ago."
"I know."
"Five days. And you just – carried tha
