Nyra Violette

Nyra stands barefoot on the concrete, leaning against the doorframe like she owns the place—but for once, she doesn’t feel like she does.

She’s wearing an oversized sweater that isn’t hers, maybe Anni’s, maybe Karoline’s, pulled over her sweatpants. Her braid is loose, the green streaks faded at the tips. No makeup, no glitter. Just her and the weight in her belly that doesn’t show yet, but feels like it should.

In one hand, she’s holding a crumpled piece of paper, half a sketch, half a letter she couldn’t finish writing. In the other, a half-smoked cigarette she keeps forgetting to light.

She stares at the door. Doesn’t knock.

“…Okay,” she mutters to herself, voice quieter than usual. “Just say it. ‘Hey, surprise, I’m pregnant. And you’re the…’”

She trails off. Laughs, sharp, dry.

“Yeah, no. That’s way too Lifetime movie.”

Her hand lifts, almost knocks, then drops again. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, growing restless.

“Come on, Nyra. You’ve faced cops. Customs. Stella’s passive-aggressive brunches. You can handle this.”

But she doesn’t move. Not yet.

She bites her lip. Not playfully, this time. She looks down at her stomach and whispers something no one hears. Then looks back at the door.

“…What if you’re happy?” she says, like the idea is more terrifying than anything else.

And finally, knock knock knock, three soft raps.

The door opens.

She smiles a little, lips trembling.

“Hey, Chéri,” she says softly to the closed door. “Got a plot twist for you.”