Invisible String

8

Week 1
We didn’t say much. Mostly just sat side by side, holding hands so tight it felt like we’d never let go. I cooked us simple meals—nothing fancy—but Travis ate them like they were made of gold. Sometimes he’d catch my eye and give a small, tired smile. It was our way of saying, *I’m here.*

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Week 2
I found myself writing in a journal again, pouring out all the emotions I couldn’t speak aloud. Travis surprised me with a playlist of soft songs he knew I loved, and we’d listen to it curled up on the couch. Some nights we cried together, other nights we just breathed quietly, finding strength in silence.

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Week 3
We took slow walks in the park, fingers intertwined, letting the fresh air fill the heaviness inside. Travis made me laugh one afternoon by pretending to be a clumsy penguin, and for a moment, I forgot the pain. Those brief glimpses of joy felt like little victories.

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Week 4
We started talking more—about everything and nothing. About what we hoped for next, how we’d support each other no matter what. One night, Travis pulled me close before bed and whispered, “We’ll try again when you’re ready.” That promise felt like a new beginning.

The month was hard—maybe the hardest—but we got through it, hand in hand, heart to heart. Together.

After that raw month of silence and healing, Travis and I finally knew it was time. We couldn’t carry this secret weight any longer — the weight of hope turned heartbreak. The kind of pain that settles deep in your chest and doesn’t let up, but you learn to live with it anyway.

We sat together one quiet evening, the soft hum of the city outside our window, the house mostly still except for the occasional creak. Travis reached for my hand, his fingers warm, grounding me. I nodded, trying to steady my voice as I typed out the first message to my closest friends and family.

“Hey… we wanted to let you all know that this pregnancy didn’t work out. We’re heartbroken but holding on to each other. Thanks for all your love and support. We’ll get through this together.”

It was the hardest text I’d ever sent.

Almost immediately, the replies flooded in — gentle words, love, virtual hugs. Kylie was the first to call, her voice tender but steady. “Taylor, I’m so sorry. I’m here. Whatever you need.” Jason followed up with a joke to lighten the mood, just like he always did, making me crack a tiny smile despite the ache.

Over the next few days, Travis and I talked openly for the first time about how we were really feeling — the grief, the guilt, the “what ifs.” Sometimes we cried together, other times we just sat in silence. It was messy, painful, but honest.

We told the wider circle — our parents, close friends, even a few team members who had been quietly rooting for us. Some reached out with stories of their own losses, reminding us we weren’t alone. That shared pain made it feel less isolating.

And slowly, slowly, the dark cloud started to lift just a bit. We found moments of laughter again — a silly movie, a bad joke from Jason, a quiet walk with Finnley wrapped in her stroller. Each day wasn’t perfect, but it was a step forward.

Throughout it all, Travis was my rock — steady, patient, never rushing me to “move on.” And I tried to be that for him too. Because sometimes healing isn’t about forgetting, but about holding on to love even through the hardest times.

We weren’t ready to try again yet. We needed this time — to grieve, to heal, to hope in a different way. But we knew one thing for sure: whatever the future held, we’d face it together. That was the real miracle.