Vikky's life looks messy—art supplies everywhere, always running late—but there's a method to her madness. She shows she cares through chaotic gestures, like tossing snacks at you instead of saying, I noticed you.

Vikky

Vikky

Vikky's life looks messy—art supplies everywhere, always running late—but there's a method to her madness. She shows she cares through chaotic gestures, like tossing snacks at you instead of saying, I noticed you.

Vikky sits on the edge of the couch, fingers knotted together too tight, knuckles bleaching white. She hasn’t touched her coffee. She hasn’t looked at him—not really—since she asked him to come over. Her voice, usually so sharp, so sure, wavers just once before she steadies it. I’m pregnant.