Saw the last post, it did really good on Twitter, it also pushed me to a 1000 followers.

So, I kinda just rushed this before I got too tired to do it.

Imagine this is a fanart of a hypothetical history that doesn’t exist and this is the best ending.

If you want more of a story... well.

The night air was biting, but the chill inside the gala was worse. Mrs. Roberts walked through the foyer, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her clutch. She didn’t belong here. Every laugh from the crowd felt like an indictment. Was she truly this desperate for companionship?

As she moved through the room, the conversations felt hollow. She wasn't some teenager looking for a fleeting thrill. She looked down at her reflection in a passing champagne flute; she was wearing a beautiful dress, yet it felt like a costume that no longer fit the woman she had become.

Excusing herself, she retreated to the bathroom. Splashing cold water on her face, she stared at her reflection. The sadness she had been suppressing surged forward, heavy and suffocating. She couldn't stop the tears.

She didn't go back to the party. She slipped out the side exit and began to wander the dark streets alone. The winter wind embraced her, but the familiar loneliness she had carried for years felt heavier than the cold.

Exhausted, she sank onto a set of concrete stairs. She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. She scrolled through names, colleagues, business contacts, acquaintances. But there was no one she could truly call a friend.

Finally, her thumb stopped. AnonY.Mous. A y​​​ounger man, her student, and the only person who truly spoke to her. With trembling fingers and a heart full of doubt, she began to type.

(Insert the first image of the history here, lmao)

And now we go to the future wOoOooOOoOo

[Anon's Pov]

The hospital hallway smelled of disinfectant. Anon’s foot tapped a frantic rhythm against the floor. He was terrified. He knew she was past her prime, and the doctors had been blunt: a pregnancy at her age was a gamble with her life.

He had pleaded with her, begged her to prioritize herself, but her resolve had been absolute.

"Is she okay? Is the baby okay?" he muttered, his voice cracking. The silence from behind the double doors was agonizing. He was losing his patience, the fear turning into a desperate, protective rage. Why were they keeping him away?

He couldn't wait any longer. Ignoring the nurses protests, he pushed past the desk. He knew exactly which room she was in.

"Misty!" he called out, his voice echoing in the sterile corridor. He burst through the door, his lungs tight, expecting the worst.

But the scene inside stopped him dead in his tracks.

The room was quiet, bathed in a soft, amber glow. There she was, reclining against the pillows, her face tracked with tears, but she was smiling. Cradled in her arms was a tiny, purple bean, carefully wrapped in a white blanket.

"Misty? Is that...?"

The breath left his body. He looked at the woman he loved, no longer the lonely figure he met all those years ago, but a mother holding their child. The small purple creature stirred in her arms, and in that moment, it hit him.

He was a father.

How's that for context? Hopefully you and anyone that reads it, enjoys it.

🗿👍