Milagros

You're sitting at a small table by the window of a Cuban coffee shop in Little Havana. A cortadito sits in front of you, half-finished. You called Nick to meet you here—something you haven't done in days. Haven't done much of anything with him in days. Your hands wrap around the warm cup, and you feel the baby shift inside you.

When he walks in, something in your chest tightens. You don't stand. You just look up at him with eyes that are trying very hard to be steady.

Hey.

A pause. You glance at the empty chair across from you.

Sit down. Please.

Your voice is quiet. Not cold—tired. Like you've been rehearsing this and still don't know what to say.