There are no text messages. No missed calls. No one has tried to contact me again. Not that I can blame them when I blew them off.

With shaking legs, I crawl into bed and curl up on my side. My phone digs into my hip and I ignore it. I want my mum. Which is so ridiculous I laugh out loud. A short, barking, bitter laugh. It took me a while to accept the truth but eventually, I learnt never to rely on her for anything. One day I’d arrive home from school and she’d be bustling about the kitchen preparing afternoon tea and asking me about school like a normal person, and the next she’d be sitting on the porch staring into space. She wouldn’t even acknowledge me if I said hi. Let’s not forget the times she wouldn’t even snap out of whatever mood she was in to wish her own daughter a happy birthday.

My chest hurts from trying to breathe.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper.

Closing my eyes, I will myself to calm down. I can’t think about Mum. Instead, I focus on work. If I’m going to hand over the Omnus project, I’m going to make sure it’s in the best shape possible. Which means I have to be in top form when I go back to Tokyo this Thursday. Which means I have to stop being a pathetic sap.

I drag myself off the bed and change into running gear. It’s the last thing I feel like doing, but exercise always helps when I feel low. Well, nearly always.

Once I’ve laced my shoes, I tuck a front door key into my sports bra and head out. At first, my pace is slow and my legs seem made of cement, but after ten minutes, I begin to feel lighter. There’s a faint pain in my lower abdomen, but I assume it’s a stitch and keep going. The pain builds and I welcome it as a distraction. But what if…

I slow to a walk. What if this isn’t a stitch? What if the deep ache emanating down my legs is to do with the baby?

I turn on my heel and walk with purpose towards home, the pain easing the closer I get. It’s nothing, I tell myself. Everything’s fine.

As I turn the corner into my street, I notice my underwear is damp. It could be sweat, but I don’t think it is. My hands cup my belly and I press my legs together as I walk in short, careful steps. Finally, I reach my front door, fumble for my key, open the door and shuffle to the bathroom. I pull down my running shorts and stare at the blood staining my underwear.