Marcus takes a long, shaky breath. There's something in his eyes I don't like—guilt swimming under resolve. "Aisha," he says, quiet as a prayer, "I think we need to take a break."
The words land in my chest like bricks.
A break? Now?
After all the needles, the calendars, the blood draws, the gut-deep ache of disappointment? After everything I've bent my body and spirit through to get here, now he wants to stop?
My heart pounds in my ears. "A break?" I echo, my voice sharp, cutting through the silence between us. "Marcus, do you know what I've put myself through for this? What we've sacrificed? This isn't some show we can just pause and come back to whenever."
He flinches, but he doesn't back down. "I know, babe. I know it's been hell on you. I've seen it. But this... it's weighing on me. Spiritually. Emotionally. My dad always taught—"
I cut him off, voice hard. "Your dad isn't the one injecting hormones into his body. He's not the one showing up to appointments with hope scribbled all over her face, just to be told 'not yet.' We're not living in his church, Marcus. This is our life."
He runs a hand over his face, and for a moment, I see it all—his conflict, his faith, his fear. "I know," he murmurs. "But I can't pretend my faith doesn't matter. I need time to pray. To be sure this path is still right for me."
I turn away so he doesn't see the tears already burning at the corners of my eyes. I get it—at least part of me does. But the timing feels like betrayal. We were right there. Ready for the next step. The cyborg transformation halfway complete, and now he wants to power down the system.
"Fine," I say eventually, my voice gone flat. "We'll take a break. But understand this, Marcus—we're not just pausing a process. We're risking our chance. My time. My body doesn't get to hit pause with you."
The next morning, I call Dr. Lopez. Her voice is calm, but I hear the caution layered underneath. "I respect your decision, Aisha," she says gently. "But with your history, time is critical. I just want you to be mindful of that."
Time. The one thing we can't manufacture, can't crowdfund, can't optimize. The one variable that doesn't care about faith or doubt or the space between them.
Weeks pass. They're quiet, tense. Marcus and I move around each other like we're sharing a house with a ghost—something we can't see but both feel. I try to be grateful for the small reprieve from the hormone-induced chaos, but it's hard to feel peace when every pregnant woman I pass makes my chest ache.
I disconnect from Womb Service. Stop answering messages from women still fleeing their home states. Stop posting about medication donations. I can't hold space for other people's hope when mine feels so fragile.
One night, I find him in the spare room—the one we've quietly labeled the nursery. He's sitting on the floor, Bible open on his lap, tears carving down his cheeks.
When he looks up, his voice is hoarse. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just... I needed to feel peace. To really search my heart."
I kneel beside him, the anger I've been holding giving way to something softer. "And did you find it?"
He shakes his head. "Not peace, exactly. But clarity. I kept praying and thinking and talking to my dad, and I just kept coming back to this: I want a family—with you. No matter how we get there."
I lean into him, feeling some of the walls between us crumble. "So what now?"
He takes my hand, firm this time. "Now I'm in. Fully. If you'll have me. No more running. No more half-yeses."
I nod, holding back a wave of emotion. "Then you have to be all in, Marcus. I can't carry both of us through this."
"I promise," he says, his hand tightening around mine. "Every step."
The next day, we're back in Dr. Lopez's office, weighing our next move. But the conversation quickly turns to the reality we've been avoiding—our nearly empty bank account.
"IVF is our best option at this point," she says gently. "The success rates are significantly higher than what we've tried so far."
Marcus's jaw tightens. "What are we looking at, cost-wise?"
"Around fifteen to twenty thousand for a full cycle," she explains. "That includes medications, monitoring, retrieval, lab work, transfer."
The number hangs in the air between us like a weight. We both know we don't have it. The pause cost us more than time—it cost us momentum, community connection, the networks that might have helped us find other solutions.
In the car afterward, the silence stretches long and heavy.
"We could use what's left of our savings," I say finally. "Drain everything for one shot."
Marcus stares out the windshield. "And if it doesn't work? We'd have nothing left. No safety net. No way to try again."
I sit with that truth. We've already sacrificed so much—our home, our community, our financial security. How much more can we risk? And who are we without the networks we've disconnected from?
But as the days pass, I realize I'm standing at a crossroads that's bigger than just money. Do I keep all of this inside, carry it quietly like I've been doing since we took this break? Or do I let people in again? Reconnect to the infrastructure we stepped away from?
It shouldn't feel like such a loaded decision. But it does. Letting people see our struggle feels risky—what if they judge our pause? What if they think we were never really committed to the movement?
But holding it all in? That's starting to feel just as dangerous. The cyborg needs community to function. The machine requires networks to operate.
One night, while Marcus is grading papers at the kitchen table, I finally say what's been growing in me.
"I've been thinking about maybe... reaching out. Finding some kind of support group. Online, maybe. Or here in the community."
He looks up, cautious. "Really? You sure that's a good idea?"
I nod, but it's hesitant. "I don't know. I'm just... tired of carrying this alone. Of pretending we can do this without community. And honestly? We need help. We can't engineer this future by ourselves."
Marcus leans back, considering. "You know how people are, Aisha. Once it's out there, it's out there. They start whispering. Asking questions. And now they'll want to know why we really left Alabama. You ready for that conversation?"
"I don't know," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "But maybe that's exactly the conversation we need to have. Maybe there are others like us—refugees from their own states' laws. Maybe I need to hear from them. Maybe they need to hear from me."
He sighs, but there's less resistance now. "The thing is, our people don't talk about this stuff. Not openly. It's either shame or silence. No middle ground."
"I'm not looking for pity, Marcus. I just... I don't want to feel invisible anymore. Like what happened to us in Alabama doesn't matter. Like the families still trapped there don't matter."Marcus leans back, considering. "You know what? You're right. When I was praying through all this, I kept coming back to community too. Maybe isolation isn't the answer. Maybe we need the network to become what we're trying to become."
I rest my head against his chest, feeling something shift. His love is steady, but the ache inside me needs more than just the two of us. It needs community. Networks. People who understand the transformation we're attempting.
"Okay," I say softly. "I'm going to reach out again. See what's available. Reconnect with the infrastructure."
He presses a kiss to my forehead. "We'll move together this time."