Invisible String

2

“Remember the plan,” he said, grinning. “You get through this, I get you that overpriced smoothie you like after. The one with chia seeds and that weird algae stuff.”

I smiled. “Deal.”

Afterward, we sat in the parking lot, waiting for results, calendars, instructions. Our days had started revolving around this — monitoring appointments, pharmacy runs, insurance phone calls. We’d switched our plan twice to get better coverage. Travis handled most of the logistics so I could focus on not falling apart.

In between all the chaos, I texted Kylie.

Me:
Follicle check went okay. 6 on the left, 5 on the right. Hoping they keep growing.

Kylie:
That’s really good! You’re doing amazing. Sending love and snacks from Philly. Want me to overnight some of Jason’s brownies?

Me:
Honestly yes.

She’d been such a quiet comfort — checking in but never pushing. Just little reminders that I wasn’t alone.

I looked over at Travis, who was scrolling through his phone, probably double-checking our medication delivery schedule for the third time. He looked up, caught my eye, and smiled that slow, patient smile of his.

“Only a few more days 'til trigger shot, right?”

I nodded. “I’m kind of terrified.”

He reached for my hand again. “Me too. But I’d do this a thousand times if it means we get to have a family.”

And just like that, I felt a little braver.

---

By now, we had a rhythm.

Every night around the same time, Travis would lay out the supplies on the kitchen island like we were prepping for a science experiment. Alcohol wipes, gauze, the tiny glass vials, the prefilled pens. I always hated the sound the pen made when he clicked it into readiness — a high-pitched snap that made my whole body flinch, even when I tried to hide it.

“Alright,” he’d say gently. “Ready, babe?”

And every night, I’d nod even though I wasn’t.

I sat on the edge of our bed, hoodie pushed up over my stomach, and Travis knelt in front of me, steady and calm. His huge hands were far too careful for someone who’d made a career out of catching footballs mid-air, but when it came to me — and this — he moved like I was glass.

I hated crying in front of him. But I cried every damn time.

It wasn’t even the pain. The shot barely stung, and the needle was small. But something about watching him hold it — knowing he wasn’t a doctor, knowing this wasn’t something either of us ever pictured ourselves doing — it triggered something deep in my chest. Panic. Fear. Grief. Hope. All of it, tangled up together.

“I’m sorry,” I sniffled as the tears came again, my breath shallow and fast. “It’s not you. It’s not the shot. I just… I don’t know why I keep doing this.”

He shook his head gently. “You don’t need to apologize. I’ve got you.”

I turned my face away, embarrassed. “Just… ignore me. Pretend I’m not crying.”

“I could never pretend that,” he said quietly, brushing his thumb over my cheek before wiping it away. “But I can promise I don’t think less of you for it.”

Then he pressed the alcohol wipe to my skin, counted softly to three — like always — and gave the injection. I closed my eyes, breathing through my nose, trying to stay still while he gently pressed the gauze down.