David stared at the phone long after he pressed send.
His heart was pounding, not just from fear, but from guilt. A guilt so old, it had started to feel like a second skin.
He hadn't spoken of that day in five years.
The day Amira lost the baby.
And now, the truth he buried—beneath pride, fear, and cowardice—was clawing its way out.
The Meeting Place
Amira agreed to meet him at a quiet coffee shop tucked between a bookstore and a florist. The same place where they once planned their dream wedding over cups of vanilla cappuccino and too much laughter.
Now, it was quiet. Awkward. Heavy with everything unspoken.
David was already there, waiting at a corner table.
When she walked in, he stood up.
But she didn't smile.
She didn't sit.
Not yet.
"Whatever it is," she said, "say it."
He looked at her for a moment.
And then, he told her.
"I wasn't at work that day," David began. "The day you called me, crying. Saying there was blood, pain, and something was wrong."
Amira flinched.
He went on.
"I told you I was stuck in traffic. That I was coming."
She nodded slowly, pain rising in her throat.
"I wasn't," he said, eyes lowered. "I was at Lydia's."
Silence.
"She and I—at that time—we were… close. I was angry, confused. And stupid. I thought you were too demanding. I felt trapped."
Amira swallowed hard.
"You were cheating," she said. Flat. Cold.
David didn't defend it.
"I was selfish. And I thought I had time to fix things. But I missed that call. I missed you. And by the time I rushed to the hospital…"
"You were too late," Amira finished.
The Aftermath
She finally sat down, arms crossed tightly.
"I almost died," she whispered.
"I know."
"I buried our child alone."
"I know," David repeated, voice cracking. "And I've never forgiven myself. That's why I kept the truth hidden. Because saying it out loud… makes it real."
Amira looked at him—really looked.
She didn't see the boy she once loved.
She saw a man broken by his own mistakes, kneeling at the altar of regret.
"I want to hate you," she said quietly.
"You should."
"But a part of me…" she paused, biting her lip, "a part of me still wants to know the man you are now."
David leaned forward.
"I'm not asking you to forget. Or even forgive. I'm just asking you to let me show you who I've become."
The tension hung between them like glass—thin, sharp, and fragile.
Amira stood.
And just when David thought she might walk out—
She leaned forward and whispered:
"Then prove it. Because someone else just told me they know something about you I don't. And if they're right… this conversation is over forever."
David froze.
"…Who?"
Amira stepped back, eyes dark.
"Lydia."