It’s the chapel she always comes back to.

She sits between the pews, back slumped against the seat. One limp hand fans over the plain of her stomach—empty, now. (not supposed to—

A (too) warm body slides in next to her and she gives no indication of notice.

He turns, trying and failing to meet her with his own brokenness. “Cameron.”

She flinches at the sound.

His fingers brush on hers and she pulls them away, shaking her head. Her gaze, clogged with tears, hovers under his.

Not fair is all she can choke out.

“I know,” he says.