Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ada felt so stupid, being afraid of such a small thing.

Small fists probed through the thick cocoon that wrapped around her daughter’s frail body, diaphanous swirls of sunshine glazing her skin. She reached a finger out hesitantly, attempting to close the distance between the two of them, but she flinched and took her hand back immediately, as though there was an electric field around her that Ada couldn't penetrate– as though there was pain in closeness.

And there was.

Her throat went dry, and there was a rumble in the floor. Perhaps she stepped on the wrong floorboard and triggered a collapse. Perhaps this room - her daughter’s life - was no place for her. Still, she attempts to break this barrier. She braves through the space between herself and her daughter with her hand, reaching closer and closer. It’s like she hit an invisible button somewhere, because her daughter let out a loud cry.

“Oh god,” Ada whispered, a whimper sounding. It could’ve been hers or her daughter’s; she couldn’t tell.

Before a sob could even make it out of her, Leon’s footsteps echo. She turns around and tries to breathe. He catches her by the threshold and eyes her carefully. These days, it seems that whenever he looks at her, a mental review follows in his head.

As her baby’s cries echo louder and louder, a certain look riddles Leon’s face: disappointment.

–

It takes Ada a while to realize that that was just a dream— that her child is yet to be born, that Leon isn’t beside her tonight. She sits up, pressing her knees to her stomach. She tries to think, but nothing surfaces besides her loneliness. It’s a depressing night tonight, the sky a dreary overcast mass of darkness with barely a star peeking.

Depressing, but peaceful all the same. It’s the kind of night she’d drink to. A couple cheap beers from a convenient store paired with even cheaper pizza. But she couldn’t do that now, thanks to her… current predicament. The thought stings. Did she just mentally refer to her child as a predicament? Well, yes.

There wasn’t another way of describing it. It wasn’t planned, prevented her from doing things she would normally do, flooded her body with overbearing feelings of fatigue, and now, most recently prevented her from sleeping.

But at the same time, this was a lifeline. A chance to be… happy. Maybe. Probably. She actually wasn’t too sure about that. But maybe that’s what she thought of when she decided she would keep it.

Yes, she remembers it now vividly.

“Fuck it,” Ada had said at the height of her delirium, laughing and quite possibly crying. He tore his gaze away from the positive pregnancy test on the coffee table.

The dreary autumn had trapped the city in a perpetual gloom, the clouds a resistance against the sunlight. When she called, he rushed to her apartment and showed up at record speed.

For the first time, he wasn’t the one to break the silence. When she spoke, his head turned to her, but his gaze remained on the little stick. The shock on his face was stationary as he assessed her.

“Let’s keep it.” She said. It seemed that the present made itself a wall between them, with her head buried in the past whereas Leon’s was reared far into the future. She thinks of her mother– vague swirls of color morphing into the shape of arms stretching out to hold her, singing unfathomable lullabies. She never thought about how she forgot her mother’s face. She never thought anything of her past at all. Bitter feelings threaten to spill out of her. Perhaps she could turn them into something more pleasant— something beautiful. Through Leon’s eyes, she could imagine the story he was starting to weave together. 

He imagined a scene pan out in front of him. His child, running around the apartment in a little onesie, a toy in hand. He realized that he’d been viewing the scene through tears when a hot pebble rolled down his cheek.
His heart fell as he wiped the tear, staring at Ada.

He took her hand in his. “Oh, Ada.” Leon said, “What are we gonna do?”

Ada knew what part of that sentence he was eliding: -to keep it safe? What are we gonna do to keep it safe… from all this?

She slowly nodded, sitting down beside him. The couch quickly balanced at the addition of her weight. She pulled back his hair behind his ear, resting her forearm against his shoulder, and whispered:

“Everything.”

—

She sends a message to Leon without really thinking:

Can’t sleep.

A few moments pass and her phone vibrates twice. She reads the messages on her lock screen.

Leon: Me too.

You okay?

—

The cold outside numbs her fingers as they wrap around the hot drink. The steam billows into the air, obscuring Leon’s face, but she catches a glimpse of his expression. He smiles when she meets his gaze, and she knows he has something to say.

“You haven’t called in a while. I’ve been worried.” She takes a short sip from her drink and leans back. “I know.” She says curtly.

Save for the occasional cars or motorcycles speeding past the open-air cafe, the street is otherwise completely empty. Whenever any disturbance passes by, she lets her eyes follow it. On the other hand, she can feel Leon’s obstinate gaze fixate on her. When she stares back, she recognises that look on his face— that same somber one drenched in agony. The look he gave her when she saw him last— in her dream. She winces.

“You can’t keep running anymore.” Leon said, and it’s the first time he’s said such a thing in that kind of tone. Back then those words were a short lived dream, a wish he’d speak into the heavy sex-riddled air the night they’d share a bed together.

“You think I’ll run away?” She whispers.
“I don’t know,” Leon says, but he nods, perhaps unwittingly. He then adds, “But it’s what you do, isn’t it? Run away?”

The sentence hangs in the air for some time before it seems to crash down on her in full force. She can’t even refute it, because he’s right. Because she’s thinking about leaving and going back to her old life right now. “I’m afraid,” She said honestly for the first time.

The world was never terrifying to her— not when it was riddled with the undead, not when it teemed with cultists that threatened to murder her. At this moment, she was aware of just how subjective normalcy truly was.

Any normal person would’ve described her mundane life as a nightmare– something everyone ought to run away from. Yet the same thing she struggled to part with. She begins to try and imagine normal, dipping her toes into a semblance of a regular life. It’s almost too easy to slip into the white picket fence fantasy. The cool air encompasses her into a brand new scene of her own, simple desires.

The former autumn wind now a brush of spring breeze, eddying the ruffles of her summer dress. Leon would be coming home, with perhaps a few grocery bags in hand. He would spot her and smile. Or perhaps he would say her name. Or maybe he would call her beautiful.

Maybe their little daughter would be running past her in a bout of giggles and an awkward waddle.

Maybe he would drop the bags to drop down and hold her.

Maybe he would spin her around.

The constant additions of elements into her little daydream should delight her, but they don't. Unconsciously, her hand cups her stomach as though the presence of their child is already tangible.

“Ada?” Leon asks, and she doesn't startle. She was never the kind to. He knows by her sharp exhale that he’s caught her off guard, but she lays against the chair languidly and pretends like he didn't.

They had this same conversation at least twice already, but this is the only time she’s planning on being honest.

Not with him, but herself.

“I’ve known death for so long, Leon.” She started, leaning closer.

“I’ve killed people and run away.” She murmured, “People have tried to kill me and I chased after them.”

“I’m afraid.” She said again, “That I’m too used to it all.”

He frowns. She leans closer and tries again, her eyes softening as she stares.

“I used to dream of this.” She admits, “Starting a family.” Her voice cracks, and she looks away.

“Ada… what do you–?”

“You know this as much as I do. This thing about us… the continuous battle… Leon.” She starts,

“What if the only thing left in us is war?”

He’s silent for a while, and the sound of the wind unsettles her. But his sigh tells her that he has something to say. “Then we fight.” He nods, “If that’s the only way we know how to do this, we fight not to survive, but to live.”

Ada looks down, and a laugh breaks out of her. His answer reminds her of almost a decade ago when he was just a sweet-eyed rookie, unsullied by tragedy. Sometimes that part of him comes out, stirring her emotions in strange ways. At times she would feel comforted by it, but at times it would be pained by it.

When she looks up, a certain sadness coats her eyes— a kind of devastation completely unlike Ada. “We can't have the baby when things are looking the way they are. You and I know it.” Leon swallows, and he stares at the passersby.

It’s an awfully ‘adult’ mood at night. There’s no children around. Nothing that could inspire a gust of paternal love, except for the thought of his own child.

“But do you?” He asks, already knowing her answer.

“Do I what?” She asks only for the sake of asking.

“Want to have this baby.”

“I… I think I do, but–” He cups her jaw, and if she willed herself to forget the circumstances, the look in his eyes would seem straight out of a romance book. But because she can't, his gaze is just heartbreaking.

He whispers something, and through the pounding of her own heart, it sounds like the wind. His lips are barely apart, his impending kiss a seal of approval.

She doesn't know why, but she doesn't think at all in that moment, and presses her lips against his.

Chapter Text

Tangerines, and summers in nowhere.
Something about appeasing the heat with the disappearance of clothing.

She runs a finger down her loosely linked button up, and the buttons give in to her, popping out of their slots one by one. She slides her arm out and throws whatever becomes of her shirt to lay atop the sand.

She is bare by the beach, aching for the sea. Yet she never leaves this inferno.

Burning, sweltering, she only hopes the sea can come to her.

Orange creamsicles, and dreams of nowhere.

Something about appeasing the heat with something cold.

She runs her tongue along the lopsided length of a melting popsicle, drinking in whatever rolls into her mouth. But she’s not faster than the heat. Syrup runs down her fingers, drips onto her thigh, lukewarm. Around her, the world grows in temperature.

Or perhaps, the heat is coming from inside her. Something glows, burns up like an engine.

She presses her palms against her belly, discovers a sizzling, thrumming heart within.

–

It starts with a dream.

Or perhaps the morning-after.

These days, a strange chill sweeps across her room, but she always wakes up with a layer of sweat glazing her skin, dampening her pillow. When she thinks to raise her palm to her forehead, she realizes it’s been sitting on her abdomen.

That same dream, she thinks.

The first few times she dreamt of tangerines were strange, but fine. Now, tangerines are a precursor to how her morning pans out. “Not this shit again,” She murmurs, slowly getting up. The world around her seems to adjust itself as she sits upright before it begins to spin. A wave of nausea permeates across her being, a presence begging to be expelled.

She breathes, slowly.

In. Out.

In. Out.

Out? Out. Out.

It never works, really. She’s up and running the moment the nausea overtakes her and she loses control of her breathing pattern. Luckily, the bathroom door’s always open these days.

Her body strains against the toilet, awaiting impending relief.

It’s easier these days, anyway. Getting her fill of water makes mornings go by faster, but not any less unpleasant.

She wipes the back of her hand along her lips, falling limp against the cold wall, suddenly aware of her breathing.

It’s shallow, paced too closely together. As though she was running for hours. Her body was changing at rates she couldn't accept. Rates which hadn't given her room to forget her former agility, or perhaps part from it.

She huffs as she stands up. Her hand, again, presses against her stomach.

It’s weird that these days, it always feels a little too warm to the touch.

–

She can't stop thinking about tangerines.

A specific kind that yields to the clutch of her palms a certain way, doesn't cave entirely once touched.

They’re in season, she’s told.

The aroma lingers over the produce section of the grocery store.

It’s embarrassing that this is the third place she’s visited in her pursuit of finding the perfect fruit, so she doesn't think to take in how differently this particular store presents itself: with fancy awnings and polished floorboards warning its customers of its set-in-stone prices. Once she sets her eyes on the basket of tangerines, she picks one and feels for its weight, letting it moor her palm to the strength of gravity.

Once she presses her finger into its porous skin, it barely gives in.

It’ll do, she decides, and places a few in a paper bag she’ll need to pay extra for. And paying extra for a paper bag because being environmentally friendly is sexy.

That’s the kind of habit you develop after exclusively shopping at gourmet grocery stores in Los Angeles for a few months, anyway.

She presses the bag close to her chest, waiting impatiently in line. It’s unbelievable how badly she wants to break into one and devour it, despite already having breakfast about two hours ago.

Just another thing to mourn, Ada realizes. Prior to her condition she was almost immune to needing anything at all, barely prone to acting upon stubborn desires. Is this why she spent two hours searching for tangerines, then?

She feels a little stupid. Then feels a little more stupid for feeling stupid. They're “Just the tangerines today?” the cashier quips about when Ada places them onto the checkout conveyor belt, not evidence of her weakness. Or whatever she seemed to fear they represented.

“Yeah,” Ada responds, “Just tangerines.”

–

It’s two things plaguing her mind for the most part: tangerines, and her mother.

Sat in the parking lot, against all safety regulations for women shopping alone, her nail pierces into the rind, peeling it back to reveal precious treasure. She pries the first wedge off the cluster and places it into her mouth. It explodes audibly, catching her off guard.

Her eyes squint at the initial tartness before widening at the immediate sweetness that follows. A soft moan of delight escapes her. But when tangerines aren't the worry, her brain obsesses over the latter.

She had a mother. A father.

Did he ever spend time picking oranges for her?

Did he refuse to let her peel them?

Did he kiss her hands when she laughed and did he say it’s the least I could do for the mother of my children.

Did he kiss her belly and speak to their daughter, stupidly, lovingly, pointlessly, fondly.

“Fuck.” She mutters, shaking her head.

Whatever history her parents had, it was buried with no means of unearthing.

She did good, though, finding and peeling her own tangerines.

If only it didn't come with such agonizing thoughts.

–

Jesus, Ada. You’re burning up.

“Hmm?” She groans, stirring in bed.

This morning, she doesn't wake up to a strange chill.

In fact, the sun itself had made it inside her bedroom. Leon. It’s a joke that stuck once an old lady referred to Leon as a little ball of sunshine when he helped her cross the street.

Aren't you a little ball of sunshine? Ada echoed. Leon shook his head, smiling.

She peeks at Leon through one open eye, then turns to her side. A poor attempt at trying to steal just a couple more minutes of sleep.

“Don't worry about it.” She grumbles.

“What do you mean?” He insists, pressing the back of his hand against her neck, then her forehead. “Yeah,” He confirms, “Burning up.”

In the midst of her morning grogginess, she takes a few seconds to bring about a reply.

But when she does, it’s an alarming: “I wake up like this everyday.”

“Everyday?!” Leon’s voice reverberates as she makes her way to the bathroom.

He only calms when he hears her chuckle.

–

Leon gets the spare keys to her house, if, and only if, he brings with him (good) breakfast.

She refused to relinquish it when he argued she may need his help, because I’m grown, Leon. I don't need help.

Refuted when he said, But I don't want to let you do this alone.

Because, and you're not letting me. Literally.

He found another way around it, of course.

To get to Ada’s mind, lately, is to get through her stomach.

So, of course, complying to her tastes was an unspoken rule brought to life once Ada greeted him by the threshold with a scowl, clearly disapproving of the breakfast burritos he’d brought. If she was just a little groggier that morning, she would have shut the door in his face.

“I was hoping I could take you out today.”

Ada shakes her head, too busied by the task of brewing her tea to muster a proper rejection.

Also too busy to expect the pair of arms wrapping around her waist. She can smell him around her, the scent of cologne superimposed by that of soap and aftershave. A little something that started to feel like home.

His whisper sends shivers up her spine, “Not off to a good start this morning, huh?”

She scoffs, “Next time, don't barge into my bedroom to wake me up.”

He cups her hips and spins her around, grinning. For some reason, she always mirrors his happiness. She’s the moon bound to reflect the light of its sun.

“What?” She chuckles.

“Move over, I’m making pancakes.”

“Help!” She emotes, “The man who just broke into my house is now trying to kill me!”

Leon snorts, “Oh, fuck off.”

–

“Well?” Leon raises a brow as he watches Ada swallow her first bite of the infamous Kennedy Special.

She nods, suppressing a smile. “Not bad, Kennedy, not bad.”

“I believe the word you're looking for is divine.”

Ada scoffs, her butter knife sawing through the layers of fluffy goodness whose goodness is better left ignored. God forbid Leon finds out she actually likes it, because he’ll never stop.

The thought makes her smile. “See, I could have said not potentially lethal. But instead, I said not bad. Count your blessings.”

Leon only smiles cheekily and lapses into silence, setting his cutlery on the plate.

He’s testing the waters when he asks: “How’re you feeling?”

He knows when Ada tenses briefly that he shouldn't bother asking his follow-up question: How’s the baby?

“Fine.” Ada begins the ending of his line of questioning, “I’m feeling fine.”

–

Leon told her that, sometimes, he dreams of monsters.

She had witnessed his darkness once, when he lay in bed with her, seemingly trapped in a nightmare.

Leon? She rubbed his arm lovingly, slowly, as to induce waking up.

Perhaps in his nightmare, he felt her, whispering, caressing, loving…

He startles awake but quickly relaxes in her arms.

Oh, Leon.

It wasn't real, she’d say, wipe his tears and take his hands to her face.

This. This is real.

She dreams of this sometimes. Monsters of her own, coming back to haunt her. Her mother, this vague being. An amorphous form wrapping itself around her. Welding itself into her.

When she wakes, she is crying.

Leon is sometimes there to tell her it wasn't real.

Leon is sometimes there to hold her, while she pretends that it was real.

Chapter Text

The fire won't go out.

And it’s unlike her to make such a detrimental– no, such a stupid mistake.
On the lit stove top, an orange flame encompasses a steel pan from electric blue roots.

For a moment, Ada considers that she isn't herself when the flame lashes her skin.
She hisses, but the pain of its touch barely superimposes her embarrassment and everything before that.

She doesn't know why she reaches for the bottle of canola oil spilling over the counter before turning off the stove.
“Oh, fuck.” She coughs, pressing her cotton shirt against her nostrils. She watches tendrils of black smoke ascend, sucked into her fire detector.

“No, no, no, no…”

The machine cries out, roaring into her ears.
But she was never one to run away from blaring alarms.

But now, for a moment, she considers her new position. Her heart, of steel cladding as she’d always known it, had something terrible festering within it.

A maternal instinct, she realizes.

The overwhelming urge to escape. To become a better home for the child she carries.

Another roar of her fire detector snaps her out of her trance. She isn't that better home. Not yet.

Shaking her head, Ada dampens a rag and throws it over the pan on fire.
And maybe it’s because of the adrenaline rushing through her veins that she doesn't realize it sooner, but once even the cloth ignites, it occurs to her that she can't breathe.

Even then, she doesn't consider leaving.

Something else festers in her heart, pins her feet to the ground. Denial.

There was a time where she could do this– and this is still that time. She is still the kind of woman who is capable of handling her own problems. The kind of woman who is capable of taking out her own fires.

She runs to the bathroom, heaving. By the threshold, she gasps for air. But even here, she can’t escape the ashes.

Mustering her strength, she fills a bucket with water. As she runs back to the kitchen, she is burdened with more than its weight. As she lifts it, she inhales.

The release is so much more than waves of water cascade across the semblance. A roar escapes her, and she is relieved to see that once flame and water kiss, the fire hisses and retreats, leaving behind traces of cinder.

She falls to her knees, coughing. Still, the fire alarm blares.

Still, she can't breathe.

Still, she is in danger.

And as she crawls towards the door, she can hardly believe her own weakness.
Come on, she thinks, willing herself to go faster, willing herself to forget the heaviness she felt.

Come on, she begs, and she can hardly believe how close she has gotten.

She can hardly believe just how heartbreaking almost truly is.

—

“Oh, you poor thing.”

Someone straightens out her hair and caresses her cheek.

Ada’s eyes flutter open, and she experiences the world through a hazy gaze and a light head. She’s outside, cornered by a few strangers. A man and two women– one of which was resting a brown bag distended with groceries atop her hip. The other woman – the one who spoke earlier – reaches for Ada.

“What happened?” Ada asks, rubbing her head. The woman in front of her is her neighbor, no doubt. A stout middle-aged woman with gentle eyes gazing through round glasses that slide down her low bridge of her nose.

“I heard your fire alarm go off, and I saw you passed out by the door. My son helped move you.” The woman says sweetly. “You don't remember?”

The wind rustles in one moment of brief peace before it roars as cars pass by. As she looks out to the open street, memories of her most recent near-death experience flood her brain.

How did it happen, anyway?

Wasn't she sleeping?

That’s the last thing she remembers, anyway. Then the fire.
She wasn't trying to cook anything, was she?

Then, it hit her.

She was sleepwalking. Ada frowns at her realization, immediately dismissing it. She groans, “Yeah, it’s coming to me.”

She looks up to the three individuals and musters a gentle smile. “Thank you, for helping me.”

“I’m sure you would’ve done the same for me, darling.” The woman rubs her shoulder, “Please be more careful, alright?”

–

“There it is.”
It took a few seconds for her to see it, but through the sophisticated patterns of black, she could see the negative space form the shape of what is undeniably her baby, floating in a space of amniotic fluid.

Its heartbeat is so loud, so desperate. Ada wonders how such a small thing could be so strong. Maybe it’s letting her know of its existence– that it truly is there. This heartbeat is too strong to deny. Not now at least, when she is there, listening to it. But maybe when it becomes a memory in the coming weeks.

Maybe she could delude herself of its existence for just a while longer.

“Baby’s got a healthy heartbeat. All seems good.” The obstetrician peels off her latex gloves and shifts in her chair. “Would you like to know their gender?”

Ada’s eyes widen for just a split second. “Um, isn't it too early for that?”

“You’d be correct…” She pauses, her interlaced hands between her legs. She studies Ada for a moment, and a glint in her eyes suggests surprise. “You’re ten weeks along today.” The doctor says in a single breath. “I thought– you could– you can definitely try a blood test.”

Right.

She’s not like the other mothers who wait to discover even the most superficial parts of their children. Not like the mothers who don't postpone their first doctor’s appointment to indefinite periods of time and decide to finally go when they've almost died.

It would be jarring to her, seeing the expectant look on her doctor’s face, if she hadn't been so loud in presenting herself: with a scowl, curt answers, and barely any questions.

She means to leave as fast as she could, and now the working woman in front of her is almost out of chances to give.

The pause is replaced with a longer bout of silence when Ada rears her head towards the wall. Just now she admires it. To the left of her are posters detailing a fetus's development and diagrams of healthy food– to her right, several degrees are lined along the wall, validating this woman in front of her.

She is in good hands. But perhaps now it is a matter of whether or not she wanted to remain in such hands. Perhaps this office – this life – wasn't meant for her.

“N-no. It’s alright.” Ada tenses as the nurse wipes off the gel on her stomach. She sits upright, pulling her top down. The residue binds to the cotton uncomfortably.

“Right. Would you like a picture of the sonogram?”

“The sonogram?” Only now is she thinking about how she just went to her first appointment without Leon. Without Leon, who isn't even aware of the circumstances of her visit.

What would he think if she misplaced the picture and it ended up in the most obvious of places, and then in the worst of places - Leon’s hands?

What would he think then?

“Yes, it’s a picture of your baby.” The doctor nods, internally confirming everything she’s thought about Ada.

“Uh,” She exhales, “I know what a sonogram is.” She rubs the burn on her hand gently before pulling down her sleeve.
What he doesn't know can't hurt him, though.

“Look.” Ada starts, and she knows she’s being heartless. She lowers her voice, “There’s the matter of… having an abortion.”

A cringe splits her face, and it’s startling how quickly and unfazed her doctor’s response comes: “It can be done, yes.” Her chair glides to the other side of the room before she comes back to Ada, handing her a pamphlet.

“And how long do I have… to think it over?”

“If you're planning on taking misoprostol– the pill, then not very long. If you wait longer than two weeks we’ll have to do it surgically.”

Ada swallows, though her mouth is dry. Runs a hand through her hair before standing up. She betrays herself when she says: “Could I get that picture, please?”

–

Ada has this habit of ending up in the middle of nowhere.
The weather this morning is a gentle breeze, an embrace. This part of town is empty, though the block is lined with several cafes and stores. Perhaps the city hasn't woken up yet.

Through her peripheral vision, she spots a small shop packed with trinkets and fruits. Why not? She thinks, slowly approaching. So many of its items are set outside on a table. It’s a random selection of watches, bracelets, and plump produce.

When she pushes the door inward, a bell jingles, but nobody is called to the register. The narrow halls are thinned out further by the protrusion of stocks. She has to navigate her way around the place carefully, unless she wants to tip over an entire mountain of packaged sweets.

There’s a woman shopping, smelling a tangerine before putting it back in the basket. She tenses for a moment before looking over her shoulder, and Ada is shocked to see how much the woman resembles a much older version of herself.

So much the eyes could tell, her own light brown orbs are staring back at her. Uncannily familiar to her own.

She takes a step forward, and–

“How can I help you today?”

She gasps, tripping backwards and beckoning the fall of a mountain of packaged sweets. When she tears her gaze off the cash register, she is almost horrified to just see the basket of tangerines. Untouched.

She stares, frozen in place. It’s only when the girl says: “It’s okay! We didn't organize this well enough.” that Ada breaks out of it and meets the gaze of the young girl managing the store.

She accidentally steps on one of the sugar candies and it shatters under her foot. She shakes her head. “I-I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for it.” She kneels down, gathering the candies hurriedly. The girl joins her, and they both place them on the table.

“I’m sorry, again.” Ada chuckles nervously, still eyeing where that woman should’ve been. “I just– I thought I saw something back there.”

She looks over Ada’s shoulder, “You probably did. This place is very cluttered. I’m sorry about that.”

“Right.” Ada murmurs, dusting her trousers.

The girl looks up expectantly.

Ada decides the least she could do for almost destroying her questionable display is buy a few tangerines.

–

It’s becoming unavoidable.
Because, through the gap she creates in sliding out a can of tomatoes in the middle of the grocery store, Ada gets a front row seat to a mundane display of affection.

A beringed hand cups the swell of a woman’s belly, softly rubbing as a voice echoes: “I got the vegetables weighed.”
A soft rumble, one that quickly transforms into one of happiness, sounds as the woman kisses her husband’s cheek. “Thank you. I think… I think that’s all?”

She needs to look away. She has to. Because, any moment now, the woman won't be so oblivious to her gawking. Because, any moment now, she might realize that the pounding in her heart isn't a result of heartburn or any other bullshit symptom of her pregnancy- no, she might realize that she actually wanted this life. And what a dangerous thought for her to have.

So, she doesn't.

Because she can't.

What she decides to do isn't any better than her original plan: she practically slams the tomato can back into place, the noise like thunder in the otherwise quiet store. Maybe if things remained the way they were, tomato can untouched, she could somehow pretend she didn't see that and remain as she was, calm.. calm… calm.

But it’s too late.

As Ada proceeds further down the aisle and reveals herself as the angry perpetrator, the woman gives her a look.

Through her peripheral vision, Ada can barely make out what it is, so something in her deluded brain translates it into what she felt for herself deep down:

pity.

–

Fingers glide across a vast surface of cloth, and somewhere along the way, they forget the feeling of nothing.

Until the towel unravels and pools around her feet.

It’s one thing to bare oneself before another, but to reveal one’s intricacies to themselves and truly examine them is strangely another thing so foreign. So… intimidating, Ada realized.

Her fingers tingle for the feeling of the towel around her body, and she almost reaches for it to cover herself. To hide her body from her own eyes, before her inert mind could finally spark.

But she’s too late.

Reflected back to her, her body stands still, yet strangely kinetic. Posture slightly bent forward, and as she looks beyond her shoulder, she appears to herself as a stranger.

A curious thing, of course– given that nothing about her should suggest such a revelation. Because of course, on the outside, she remains unchanged.

But what to name this unchanged being?

Her previous employers had granted her the autonomy of such privilege. A privilege which had turned into something of a dress she has since worn.

Her neighbors would know her by what her most recent forged documents suggest: Adeline Liu.
Leon would still know her as the woman in a trench coat who hid behind a pair of glasses and a fake ID.

And now…

Her palms slowly reached downward, cupping her abdomen.
This little one would come to call her mama.

Another identity she’d have to don, she realized. Another dress to put on.

“Jesus.” She mutters, reaching for her towel and wrapping it around herself. “Is this existential dread your doing?”

Ada bites back an embarrassed smile.
It’s the first time she addresses her child, and a part of her feels a little silly. Still, she says, “I can forgive the nausea, but this? You're on thin ice, little one.”

–

Leon’s kiss evanesces but not before leaving her breathless.

Strong arms wrap along her waist, against the moonlight, seeming transparent.
He is careful with his closeness, alternating between embracing her for only a few seconds or playing with her hair for hours.

His hesitance is not lost on her, but she ignores the emptiness it causes her.

“You gonna tell me about that burn mark on the counter?” He mumbles, gently easing himself away from her.

Right.

She’d told him the reason behind her stay– that her kitchen counter and stove top got fucked from some incident.
She’d downplayed it more than she should have, though, because when he saw the damage himself, he was rather shocked.

Slowly, she turns to face him.

His face tells nothing of what he is thinking, an unfortunate thing that means he either got much better at hiding, or that she could no longer see through him the way she used to.

She doesn't know which is worse, so she blames it on how the moonlight doesn't escape her. How it doesn't light his face the way it should.

“Hmm…” She hums, avoiding eye contact. “I guess I tried making something.”

Briefly, Leon frowns. “You guess?” He says.

Ada inhales, “I’m fine. I just… spilled some oil.” And she’s saying the truth, just… leaving out less important details such as how she thinks she was sleepwalking and how she almost died.

But why waste her breath on mentioning something that never happened?

Leon’s silence worries her, so she tries comforting him further. “Don't worry, nothing happened.”

He presses his lips into a line and raises his brows, as though he physically has to will himself into believing her. He lets her know his doubts when he says: “I don't know, it was a pretty big burn mark, Ada.”

She rolls her eyes playfully, pulling herself into a sitting position. “Look, don't be mad.” She warns, playing through his hair and combing through his brow with her thumb when he raises it in suspicion.

“But I went to see a doctor.”

He tenses, propping his elbow as he starts to lift himself. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” Ada nods reassuringly, “Everything’s fine for… both of us.” She gestures to her nonexistent belly awkwardly. “I just got something.”

She reaches across the nightstand to find the sonogram. In her hands, it feels heavier than it should as she gives it to Leon.

His face softens and his jaw loosens in recognition. He’s sitting up next to her now, and it takes a moment for him to look up from the tiny picture. “Is this–?”

Ada nods slowly but doesn't get closer to him.

As he admires the sonogram, his thumb glides across its shiny surface. His lips part in awe, and she is glad to see that the moonlight has managed to slip past her this time, turning the tear that escapes him into silver.

“Are you–?” She stops herself when Leon chuckles, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes.

“Its head… it’s too big for its body.” He laughs.

Ada scoots a little closer to him, resting her chin on his shoulder.

She’s had this picture for a week now and gazed upon it more times than she can count, but in Leon’s hands, it has a newness about it that causes her heart to flutter.

The baby’s head is indeed the way Leon had described, its body slightly more narrow with the smallest limbs protruding.

A chuckle sputters out of her. For just a brief moment, it feels like she belongs to this normalcy.

For just a brief moment, she shares his laughter, “It is, isn't it?”

–

She’s making tea when the jingle of keys sound.

It takes her a few moments to realize the key to Leon’s apartment is still on the key rack by the door; he’d taken the wrong one in a rush to leave.

She swirls her spoon around the cup for just a few more seconds, chuckling, before she gets the door.

She unlocks the door for him and opens it wide. “Hey.” He starts, his embarrassed smile morphing into that of fondness when she greets him.

“I don't know,” She says, laughing softly as he makes his way past her, patting down his coat, “I always thought someone as clumsy as you would keep a spare.”

Leon pauses, palms laid flat against his pockets, “Uh, that is my spare.” He nudges his head towards the key rack.

Eventually, he gives up on searching his pockets. His keys are long gone, by the looks of it.
“I got you something.” He murmurs, going back to pick up a box he’d left outside.

She shakes her head, fondly. He’d been delighted to hear her ask to stay at his place for a while. Granted, it was an impromptu decision on her part.

Nothing he was foreign to when it came to her, but the state of his apartment was never any less embarrassing when she came by.
Since then, he’d been trying to turn this place into something she’d like, arranging and rearranging furniture over and over.

And now…

He places it over the counter. “I placed an order for it when I saw it.”

“Leon, I–” She takes a step towards him, and he puts his hands up. “Open it.” He says, nudging his head towards his gift.

The silk ribbon yields to her touch, unraveling at the pull of a finger. On the side of a box is another ribbon expecting to be pulled. She tugs on it, and out of one box slides another.

Neatly tucked into a bed of foam, an ornate set of tea cups stare at her. Gently, she pries one out of the box, inspecting the red decals of twisting lines that join into beautiful shapes of flowers. She fingers the gold rim as she looks up. “It’s beautiful… thank you, Leon.”

When she meets his gaze, she recognizes something in Leon’s eyes. Something overcast by the smile he gives her. She hides her hand behind her back.

Maybe their distance wasn't a product of her fault. Maybe, just maybe, he’d been doing some running of his own.

“What’s wrong?” She whispers, and in one stride she diminishes the space between them, pries into his soul with a swift move of her hand as she moves his face towards her.

His hand slides up her arm, rubs the back of her hand that's on his face before he kisses her palm. As he exhales, she feels for the tremble.

“Are you okay?” Leon asks– no, begs.

“Why?” She murmurs.

He lets her hand fall, and he backs away, his face in his hands as he exhales. “I don't understand.” Leon proclaims, a strange laughter sounding. “I’m struggling to understand what you pictured for us when you told me we could start a family, because you feel so distant.”

“Leon–” She tries coming closer. Tries to understand what brought this on. She makes excuses in her head, little reasons that don't matter. Maybe it was that she had seen a doctor without him, but she couldn't gull herself into believing that.

“No, listen to me.” He shakes his head, and she stays put. “I know you need your space, and I respect that, but you're still keeping secrets.” He points to her palm.

“It’s not even the fire,” He mumbles, “I know you can handle yourself, but why won't you let me in?”

She flinches, and a part of him regrets catching her off guard. Yet another part of him aches for her closeness, and the other part of him understands that the space between them is an uncomfortably tumultuous stream he must wade through. It was never going to be as simple as crossing over.

But she regrets it immediately when she says it: “I’m not in need of your saving, Leon.”

And he is heavy when he says: “So that’s how you want it?”

She doesn't respond, something of ego and guilt silencing her. His head hangs low when he nods, and when he looks up, just like that, Leon is a reflection of hurt. “I don't even know why you wanted to do this.” He confesses. “I don't even know why I wanted to do this. Because it’s like I don't even know you.”

She wished he’d been angrier, more spiteful– aggressive. Maybe then she could push back and yell. And then later they'd apologize for raising their voices.

But no… the serenity in his tone makes it all the more painful. She has nothing to face but the truth in his words.

It’s like I don't even know you.

And when she really thinks about it, she doesn't even know herself at all.

–

To be held through the gusts and blows of a winter blizzard, she is not what she is now.
A gentle force - arms wrapped around her body, she realized - rocks her softly, softly… so soft, it is barely there.

You’re my sweet child, aren't you? When the woman says Ada’s name, a hum of the wind replaces it, and she frowns.

What did you say?

The woman’s eyes smile before she does, a tender fold of her skin turning her eyes into crescents. Another hum of the wind, and then you’re my sweet child.

It’s becoming uncomfortable now. The rocking picks up a pace, and it’s faster. The arms around her aren't so soft. If her heart wasn't pounding so fast she would've noticed that she was fading.

My name, Ada says, You know my real name.

And the woman’s hair is floating, it seems. A spiral of fumes dwindling into the vast cosmos. Her face, a phantom of existence. A sheer veneer coating a tumultuous background she could see.

When all she could hear is the sound of bursts of dying stars, Ada says please.

Don’t you? Says the woman.

And somewhere in the multiple streams of consciousness in her mind she wanders in the wrong river, and she realizes she is dreaming, almost awake.

But the illusion begins to fade, and the world around her is ceasing to exist by the second.

Please! Ada begs.

And then, everything stops. And nothing is left of the woman. Nothing is left of the woman when Ada allows her name to slip past her lips in her sleep.
She calls out to the remnants of her.

“Mom?” She murmurs, and her own voice wakes her.

The word is gone as quickly as it comes, wandering helplessly through the night.

She presses her knees closer to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself.

Ada doesn't know why she is crying.

Lately, she doesn't seem to know a thing at all.

Chapter Text

His phone rings thrice; he counted.

Maybe it’s out of curiosity, or even insecurity, that he waits out Ada’s calls.
At first, she resorted to leaving missed calls followed by short messages, and then, she dialed for longer, longer, and longer.

His phone stops ringing.

He lazily turns in bed, groggy from all the alcohol. What a difference a bad day makes, unravels all his sense of decorum and self-composure. He couldn't speak to her in this state, disheveled and dubious. She might regret it if he did.

When the silence doesn't last and she calls again, his heart drops a little, and he hesitates before turning his phone over.

He doesn't know what it is, disappointment or relief, when he sees that it’s an unknown number– not the one Ada had shared recently.

Whatever the feeling is, it doesn't last when he answers.

“Hi, I found your number in her wallet. I thought you might be able to help?”

–

By the time Leon is there, the commotion has more or less dissipated. He pushes through shoulders and squeezes himself through. Ada partially acknowledges him before staring off into the distance.
The more aware she becomes and the more humiliated she begins to feel, she asks the concerned strangers to leave.
Only one has resisted her pleas– a young woman in blue scrubs.
Ada would've thought it was a little too convenient, if the woman didn't confess that she was only a premed student. As far as Ada is concerned, that only means she is as useful to her as a car key is to a door’s lock.

All that doesn't matter now, not with Leon showing up horrified like that.
He cups her face for a moment before searching her body for any external injuries. The woman shakes her head, “I’m sorry, at first I thought it was an asthma attack. Your number was on a piece of paper in her phone case.”

Leon regards the woman for a brief moment, and she continues, rubbing the back of her head. “But then there was a woman who said she was following her for a bit.” She looks off into the distance, “I think they argued or something–”

“Jesus,” Ada mutters, “It was just a panic attack. I’m fine. I…” She takes another sharp breath, “I apologize for taking up your time.”

The woman only smiles, “Not at all, Jane. You’ll be fine.” She pauses for a brief moment, tucking her phone into one of the many pockets of her scrubs.
“I’ll get going now?”

Leon nods, “Thank you.” but it makes no difference to him when she leaves– he never looked away from Ada.
They remain like this for a brief moment, the wind rushing into the space between them as he remains crouched before her. Her cheeks are tear-stained, eyes reddened and distraught, hair in messy clusters that partially hide her face as they waver in the wind.

He could ask her what happened but he knows that, at this moment, her answer won't mean anything. That is if she even decides to say anything.

“Let’s go home?” He says, and she doesn't reply, only stands up in acquiescence. When he takes her hand and leads her to his car, she thinks of how she struggled to say her name when asked.

“Liu, Ann– Oh, god, Jane. It’s Jane.”

It doesn't matter. None of them were really her.
She pauses for a moment, suddenly unsure of time and space. She remembers why all this happened in the first place.

Leon frowns, rubbing circles on her forearm.

“I thought she was my mother.”

–

"They called me Jane.” Ada starts, when he says nothing. “That’s the kind of name you get when you got nothing and nobody.” She says, “When you're nothing and nobody.”

They’re still by the threshold of his apartment, but for some reason, he can't bring himself to walk in.

“Where have you been?” He asks. They hadn't seen each other since their last argument. Though sometimes, when the night is at its last minutes of life, when he can't tell the difference between shadow and tangible figures, she is there. He could’ve sworn she was there last night, her fingers cupping his jaw, her lips on the cusp of his ear. Her whisper, dissipating warm against his skin.

But she wasn't. The sunshine would spear into her sides as the dawn broke into the horizon, and it could’ve been in a blink of an eye, but when he turned, she was gone. In his alcohol-ridden moments he believes this phantom might as well have been her.
Ada looks away, squints her left eye in consideration. “Everywhere, I suppose.”

“So, same as always.” Leon translates. He steps back, lifting open the barrier to his home and welcoming her. The moving of his body produces a larger gap that allows her to see into his apartment. Her heart drops a little when she spots the plethora of empty bottles scattered around his space. Her face, for a brief moment, displays disappointment.

She knows that he, too, has been the same as always.

His jaw loosens before he presses his lips into a thin line. Lately, the nuances in her facial expressions haven't been as subtle as he was used to. He never knew what that would mean, but he’s starting to. When he looks at her now, there's a warrant for his trust.

Regardless, she doesn't come in.

“You were right. Everything is falling apart and I can't fix it. ” Ada says.
“I’m sorry." Leon says, somewhere between You were right and falling apart.

"For what?" She already knows, but maybe she needs to hear it.

"What I said that day."
"But it's true." Ada nods. "You don't know me."

She breathes, maybe because it’s starting to get harder. Maybe because if she filled her lungs with enough air it wouldn’t feel like she’s drowning right now.

His head hangs low below his shoulders, in deep consideration. When he rises to meet her gaze, he is an object of distant memory, taking her back to that crumbling bridge. She is surprised she isn't already falling by now.

"Maybe I don't," Whispers Leon, and somehow, he is beautiful against the light washes of sun that pass through her silhouette, beautiful as he closes the distance between them in one stride and becomes the shadow that lingers. Beautiful as he looks at her, distraught and disheveled. Completely undone and unready.

"But I know this." He says, fingertips going down her arm and finding her palm as his hand holds hers. "I know that no matter what, somehow, I’ll always find you. And you sure as hell will always find me."

She can't breathe.

They’re on the edge of something and she is afraid to think of change. But maybe nothing is changing, maybe this is how things always were.

"And we make it work, don't we?" He chuckles, "In our own, strange ways."

Maybe they did. Maybe love is never lost, like energy. Maybe it runs for miles and circles back again, like the wind.

“You don't know me.” Still, she can't breathe.

He pauses, and a draft of wind ruffles his hair briefly. He leans lower, narrows his eyes at her. The thing about blue eyes, how they are everything but eyes: skies, seas, glaciers, and now, crystals she could see nothing through. “So, who are you?”

For some reason, she hopes he’ll answer himself. But he just stands there, vexingly relaxed, amazingly patient. The breath he draws trembles once he exhales it.

Not Jane, she wants him to say. You're not Jane.
But he doesn't, and she can't breathe. Not until she says it herself and

"I love you."
And she steps back.

He sees the regret in her eyes before she can help it. His brows furrow as his hands find her face, "No," He whispers against her, "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" She wishes she could see herself through the curve of his eyes, to smooth her face and practice her stoicism. But he’s no mirror.

"Like you're going to leave." He knows that look very well. Behind her eyes, he could almost see her drafting her plans. Her thinking that things would've been better if she hadn't said it. If she wasnt so close. If she weren't there.

"It hurts me," He admits, and there's a waver in his voice that cracks. And she almost fears this is where it ends, where he realizes he is better off with something much greater, something better, someone with a heart that isn't as closed off as hers, and then he says it.

"But goddamn it, I love you despite it.”

He says it and she’s on fire.

Her fingers are interlaced behind his neck, pliable and slow as they knead into his hair when she’s kissing him. When his hands, hot and pulsing, run up her back she moans into his mouth.

In his arms, she is weightless.
Against the wall, his arms are pinned against either side of her, and she is caged.

“I need you,” She gulps in a way almost frantic, guiding his hand. He lowers it, pulling back thin fabric, fingers slipping into her folds. “Right here?” He whispers, and the words escape her. Any effort to communicate sensibly is lost on her feeling of ecstasy. She is animalistic, heady.

They lose themselves the way they always have: in each other. “I need you,” She says again, and he pumps his fingers into her faster, harder. Something in her breaks and she shakes her head. “I need you.”

He kisses her as he messily unbuckles his belt, the sound of metal clanging against the floor has her heart beating in anticipation and she is delighted to see that he is ready for her just as she is for him.

He is golden as the sun breaks through the window and limns his skin, sets ablaze his hair. And then, in an instant, he is so warm and ruddy.

His lips a crimson shade from being all over her.
His cheeks, rosy with his ears to match.

Something about the difference between knowing and finally understanding, between finally understanding and actually feeling.

Above her, he is like summer. His skin– sunlit, scorching sands. Her lips run across its expanse, seeking refuge. And perhaps she finds it in the seas of his eyes. When he closes them, she takes his face. “No,” She says, “Look at me.”

And she wonders if, when he looks through her eyes, he sees somebody, something. The eyes of a runner? Or those of a surfer– come to seize his seas?

He fucks her senseless, crashing into her like a high wave– until time becomes the setting sun that washes her.
He touches her like he doesn't know her, and it’s even better than she imagined. He kisses her like he’s learning her. Every reaction she makes beckons a different experience.
He slows inside her, deeper.

She whimpers, bucking her hips against him.
He yields to her, latching his lips onto her neck.

They make love, until her body is rife with uncontainable pleasure that spills from her eyes. He flicks away her tears with his thumb.

He kisses her forehead and drops beside her. Against her back, she can feel his heart pounding… pounding… pounding.

Even now, he doesn't tire of her body. His hands, made for touching her it seems, travel the expanse of her skin. He settles his palm against her lower abdomen, his touch so light it’s barely there.

When she places her hand over his, she is so warm. Through her peripheral vision, something golden is beaming.

She hopes he can see it too, hopes he can feel the sizzling, thrumming heart within.

–

When she takes his hand, she kisses his palm.
The faint aroma of tangerines and his cologne dabbed on his wrist.

“Do you remember your mother?” She asks, in a trance. She doesn't tell him she sees visions of her own mother, how she is everywhere. In strangers, dreams, and sometimes in her.

Leon nods.

“I remember that my mother loved tangerines.” He smiles, and Ada regards the small bowl filled with separate wedges for her convenience. “She did?” Ada says, not really surprised, but perhaps in awe.

He nods and seats himself beside her. The couch levels comfortably at his weight, and she lets herself
lean into him. His scent overtakes her, suddenly reminding her of the few weeks she spent so alone. And worse, the weeks he spent alone, too.

He’d never mentioned his mother to her. Neither did he say anything about his father. She also kept it to herself that she knew about the bloodbath that turned his life upside down and determined his fate, ultimately leading him to find his vocation to become a cop.

He still doesn't tell her about the disaster. Instead, his fingers weave into her hair as he presses his chin against her head.

Holding her, Leon tells her of better days and orange tiramisu.

–

It was a warm day, the sun a particularly strong stroke of heat in the early days of July. His father had rented a beach condominium overlooking the shore– a fine house encompassed by sea breeze and sand, its door heightened by a flight of stairs.
It had taken him a few years to finally save up since he first received the pamphlet at a convention; he knew a view like that didn't come for cheap. But it was the dream - as Leon explained to Ada - he’d take his wife and young son on a short road trip, a three-hour long drive from Tampa to Miami.

They’d spend a number of days there, bathing under the sun, diving into the water. Trying to make unforgettable memories. And they did.
Leon remembers his mother’s laugh. The gull of the birds flying past, nose diving into the beach from the sky, the rumble of the surf as it crashed against the shore. Echoing through the air, her voice sounded like singing, and quickly the world around her turned into music.
Now, lost in deep memory, he can almost sway to that rhythm.

He remembers the corners of a quilt, flickering under the weight of ladden mason jars, its center filling with air, threatening to spill over, until his mother placed a glass baking dish over it. Leon’s nose scrunched in recognition. He hated orange tiramisu, and so did almost everyone who tried it. As Leon knew it, it was a disgrace to his Italian heritage.

The aroma of orange essence and something strange, like a sweet almond syrup - now known to him as amaretto - wafted close through the ocean breeze.
“I know, I know,” His mother laughed gently, “You don't need to remind me.” And she produced from the cooler a ramekin filled with chilled chocolate pudding. Now, that’s more like it.
Leon flashed her a toothy grin as he accepted from her a spoon. He was almost proud to know he’d circumvented any of his mother’s orange desserts. Even though he knew she didn't make them with him in mind. Not anymore.

When night fell, they retreated into the house, noting through the window, the absence of a full moon hanging in the sky. As his mother gently remedied the sunburns on his shoulder, light ointment glazing his skin, she asked him to look further.

And he did.

The blurry clouds drifted in tow, uncovering bright stars. The harder he looked, the sparklier the sky got, as though someone flicked into the night speckles of white paint.
When he pointed at the brightest one, burning in the dark expanse of the sky, edges feathered in motion, his mother nodded and said that sometimes the moon hides, and only then, the sky is dark enough for the shiniest of stars. For the rest of the night, he rested by the windowsill, stargazing.

When all the energy in his body boiled down into memories and sleep began to overtake him, he laid his head down, and it is only then that he realizes he’s been staring at Ada. That Ada has been staring at him, her eyes wide through a curtain of lashes, her dilated pupil a dark eclipse in her otherwise light brown orbs. Looking at her, like this, Leon finds that her eyes are dark enough for the shiniest of stars.

It is still early in the afternoon, but looking at her, like this, Leon is stargazing.

–

When he asks her about her childhood, she smiles bitterly.

“I must've been about ten years old when I got my first gun.”

The weight of it still lingers.
Sometimes, it feels like she can't fully raise her arms, forever burdened by macabre.

Still, she joins her hands together and makes a pistol– shuts her left eye as her right targets her victim.

In his quiet apartment, it is easy for Leon to imagine the scene with her, allowing her words to paint an image in his mind: a scene that extends beyond its grounds of purpose. When Ada remembers, she becomes the mouthpiece of her sorrow.

“He’d said to go for the leg.” She explained, “We needed him alive if we wanted him to speak.”

She’d never pulled a trigger at that point. In her weak, shaky grasp, the pistol trembled. “Please,” She begged as a young child, “I-I don't want to do this.”

“I don't know why I looked him in the eye.” Ada confesses, trying to see the clear skies. Trying to avoid the man’s eyes. “If I didn't, maybe I would’ve been brave enough to run. After all, ignorance is bliss.”

But something about his gaze screamed danger, eyes like a mythical presence turning her into stone. Or perhaps a hypnotic aura stringing along her limbs, pulling her finger just a bit further–

“No!” She screamed, and just as she dropped the pistol somehow a bullet had pierced the man’s leg. His own groans had somehow silenced her own.

“Even after that,” Ada chuckles bitterly, “He honored his allegiances. And maybe that was…” She pauses, and even though she was never looking at Leon, she looks even further. From the window pane to the outward streets and moving cars.

She remembers how the man slit his throat, said a silent man to him was just as good as a dead one.

She always thinks of where loyalty got him… scattered in pieces all over the walls in this basement. His blood soaked into the mop she was forced to drag across the floor. How the blood never really went away– how it glued her sneakers to the tiles.

She thinks of how each time she pried her feet off, residue would bind her to the ground again.
And maybe that was what scared– no, scares her.

No matter how hard she tried, she could never outrun all the blood and carnage she had caused. It followed her like a tsunami, her back the dam that always stretched forth. Perhaps if she stopped, for even one second, the waves would crash into her and drown everything behind her.

It takes Ada a while to escape this memory, even as she squeezes her hands into fists and her nails dig bloody crescents into her palms.

Even when Leon says, “You never told me this before.” she is still that scared child mopping blood off the floor.

She is still staring at the bullet wedged into the sinew ripped open. She still flinches at the creak of the door when the man appears.

She can still hear him say: “A gift for you. For doing so well.”

Her hands still feel too small for the pistol he hands her when she says, “I didn't think it ever mattered.”

–

Under the light showers of rain and cold, Leon’s hand guides her into the burial grounds. Beyond her, the gravestones sit atop hills of turf, adorned by long blades of bedewed grass. Before her, a cobblestone archway begrimed with moss parts the way from life, death. She hesitates by the entrance as she looks into the field, the stones leveled sporadically almost resembling tree stumps from afar.

Still, Leon’s gait beckons her to follow. Their feet stop by a sod wildly unkempt, earth braiding a pair of eroded headstones together.

Her hand falls to her hip as Leon leans down and swipes away a bundle of moss to reveal embossed granite.

Loving mother and wife

Her heart drops, and it isn't like she hadn't known he was taking her here. That morning the sun had gently roused her awake from the deepest slumber she’d fallen into. Leon sat by the edge of the bed, hands racked into his hair. He looked behind his shoulder, and at the sight of her he smiled. Though not completely, she noted. It didn't reach his eyes and fold the skin around them into the crow’s feet she’d loved to look at.

Good morning, He’d whispered.

Morning. She’d said back.

And the next time he’d said something to her was after breakfast, when he finally broke out of his trance. I’ve been thinking lately… about visiting the graveyard. Would you come with me?

And without giving it much thought, she did.

He exhales, his breath a plume of smoke in the cold. She tries to follow his faraway gaze and ends nowhere. Instead, she takes his hand and brings him back to where she is. He flinches, thick lashes flickering, curtained above stormy eyes.

“Are you alright?”

He places his hand atop hers and rubs the back of it when he feels for how cold she is. He doesn't answer her. Using her other hand, she brushes away his shaggy bangs. In just one moment, they glow like a little boy’s.

“Yeah…” He says, a little distant. “I just never realized how much I missed them.”

She doesn't know what to say. She never had any parents to miss.
Ada’s lips press into a line as she smiles sadly, wipes his tears away.

He returns the smile. “Thank you, for coming with me.”

Through her peripheral vision, she can see flowers. “Thank you, for bringing me.”

–

She thinks she’s actually showing– a healthy protrusion of her belly catches her attention as she puts on her blouse. For a moment, she doesn't know what to do with it, but it feels natural to let her hands drop and cup her stomach gently.

So it is real, she thinks, gently crawling into bed.
Outside, the storm is only at its loudest.
She rests against the headrest and gazes upon Leon’s sleeping figure. Lean, muscular arms are tucked under a pillow as he rests his head. She notes his scars, turns them into countless constellations, and she wonders.

After all she’s seen, Ada wonders about fiction and silly childish imagery. Thunderstorms and sensitive ears. The dark abyss in the closet, only lit by sparks of lightning.

She wonders, after all she’s seen, if she could still tell her daughter that monsters aren't real as she pretends to look for them under her bed.

–

She’s happier.
That’s the first thing he notices when she takes a seat in front him. He kisses her temple and pours her a cup of tea.

“Feeling better?” He asks, and she chuckles before biting into a piece of toast. She covers her mouth when she says: “Morning sickness has been intense, but I’ve dealt with worse.”

He smiles gently, peeling a tangerine for her, because at this point, it’s easier to find those than eggs in their fridge. She isn't complaining, though, happily biting into the wedge he feeds her.

“At least you're actually having breakfast now.” He notes, taking a sip of his tea and making an attempt to hide his hatred for it. Coffee’s a no-go now. If Ada so much as thinks about it, she triggers her gag reflex. He wonders how long that symptom of her pregnancy will last, but he can't bring himself to look forward to any changes.

It’s almost too much for any of them, with everything that has happened, but they don't talk about it. How could they?

Living in the past, in the midst of building their future…
It was stupid, and that's where he left it. Just a stupid obstacle to happiness.

They sit in silence, listening to the birds chirping and the occasional barking of his neighbor’s dogs.
She stares pondorously, deep in thought.

Suddenly, she smiles. “You know, I think it’s a girl.”

Leon looks up and chuckles. He hadn't thought of having a daughter, though the thought isn't at all unwelcome. “Two Adas?” He inhales, “Oh, that’ll definitely go by smoothly.”

Ada snorts, “Well, I can't imagine having two Leons would be much different from having two dogs. You two will be getting into all sorts of messes.”

Before he could refute, he bites back his words. “Okay, can't argue with that.”

Ada shrugs victoriously.
Something tells him this won't be the end of that discussion.

–

New York has always been busy, bustling with business. Today is no exception. As Leon squeezes past the swarm of people, he escapes one hassle only to throw himself into another. A young girl staggers on her black mary janes, and in attempt to regain her balance, she twirls right against Leon’s chest.

At least it’s not his coffee that she spilled, he thinks, once a creamy brown latte absorbs through his shirt. “Goddamnit,” He mutters, instinctively taking off his blazer.

The girl doesn't need to put on her awfully thick concave glasses to know just what happened. At the edge of her fingers, droplets of iced coffee hang before splattering over the asphalt. “I’m so sorry!” She says, pushing up her black-rimmed glasses. Through the glass, her blue eyes shrink alarmingly, making her other features look cartoonishly huge.

“I’m so sorry!” She says again, an awkward grin splitting her face. His anger edges when he notices just how clean the papers she has pushed against her chest are. Talk about bad luck.

Before she can apologize again, Leon shakes his head. “It’s fine,” He regards her for a moment, notes the bright pink rubber bands wrapped around her braces when she smiles, the freckles across her face, her formal attire that’s way too big for her small frame.

“I know I’m in no place to ask,” She mumbles, producing from her bag a clipboard– a petition for something to do with saving the planet. He’s agitated, but for some reason, he thinks to himself that this is someone’s little girl. Somewhere, there is a father who dropped her off nearby before going to work. Somewhere, this is a mother who helped her pick out the perfect suit.

And then, he thinks of this morning: what if that’s his little girl someday?

He can't believe it, getting all soft like that. But he doesn't rage. Instead, he chuckles, “Alright. Got a pen I could use?”

–

“I’ve got an appointment next week,” Ada says, looking up from her book. “You're coming, right?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world!” Leon’s voice echoes in the distance, becoming clearer as he crosses the living room to her and lays next to her on the couch.

Laying vertically together, there's not much room for comfort.
She laughs as she squirms against him, “You're squeezing me right now.”

“Want me to leave?” He whispers against her neck.

“God, no.” Her hands cup his jaw, and she kisses him.

–

It’s only a few days until her next doctor’s appointment.
And it’s not like she isn't used to her plans going rogue, but this?

She doesn't know what this is.

Panic? Anxiety? Or perhaps even a placebo.

Surely, surely, she is imagining it. This light throbbing in her abdomen, that only quickens and worsens the more she thinks of it.
Why would things go wrong now?

Beyond her unfolds a dreamlike scene. The clear blue sky and the sun, shining down on Leon who smiles when he sees her. It’s almost cruel, this juxtaposition between her thoughts and Leon’s.
And it’s like the room is split in half. Behind her, she can imagine a thunderstorm traveling, looming over to his side.

She can't have that. Can't ruin his day by telling him thoughts that might not even be true. She forces a smile and retreats into the darkness, rushing through the hallway and into the bathroom.

“Please,” She whispers, and she doesn't know what it is she wants to beg for.
Wasn't she in this same bathroom some weeks ago, saying please, please, please when she took that pregnancy test, praying to any being that would listen she wasn't with child?

So why does it scare her that her prayers may finally be answered?

She stares at herself in the mirror and thinks she must resemble her father, because the face that stares back at her can't possibly be a mother’s.
That face is the same that has lied and schemed and killed.

If she looks hard enough she can see the blood splattered across it, soot and dirt dried onto her temples.
This is the face of a liar. A thief.
A killer.

But still, she says please.

She says please, when a wave of pain crashes into her. Slowly, she leans into the bathroom wall, its coldness stunning her. She waits it out and decides that maybe this is just another dreadful symptom.

But she knows it isn't.

Trembling, her fingers hook against her pants and slide them down. They fall to her ankles in a pool of fabric now splattered with blood.

There aren't any more prayers to be made, and certainly none to be answered.

When she makes her way to Leon again, she is smiling. He’s searching through countless books, and when he feels her presence, he smiles. Head down, he starts, “Honestly? I’ve been thinking about names.”

Me too, she wants to say.

Katrina Cheung
Anna Liu
Jane.

She thinks of all these names, these identities she’d once taken. How they never felt like they were hers.
She thinks of what she would name herself, if she could.

Maya, she thinks.

“Maya.” She says. “I really want to name her Maya.”

She doesn't know why the name sticks. Maybe it’s because it belongs to no one. Maybe because it’s hers.

Or maybe, it’s because it sounds a little like the halfway to saying
Mine.

Chapter Text

Oh, god.
That’s the first thing Leon says when she tells him that Maya will forever remain what it is: a name, not their daughter.

Oh, god.
He says again, when he realizes Maya is just four letters that happens to have a few meanings:
courage, beauty, and dream.
Their dream. Just, a dream. Not someone who would happen to look like him or Ada– someone whom he could hold and cradle in stormy nights.

Oh, god.
He cradles her head in his arm and holds her. When he releases her and looks into her eyes, they are galaxies– comets that run down her skin and glitter in the sun. “Shit, we need to go to the hospital, don't we?”

“Come on. Ada. You can't be so sure, right?”

“But I am!” She yells, and at the height of her scream a cry chokes her.

“Don't cry,” He whispers, “Please don't cry.”

And maybe he’s saying it to himself, a mantra he hopes would forge a chain of steel in repetition, wrapping around him and pulling him together.

“I wanted this.” Ada says, and - as she always was - she becomes his undoing.

What to do when your undoing becomes undone?

He watches her unravel. He imagines red threads unweaving, scattering into the wind. He imagines trying to catch them. He imagines trying to pull her together.
But it is what it is– only in his head he could weave together something that could work out.

His hands, these hands that reach for her, stop at her shoulder, rendered useless. Because, what to do when your undoing becomes undone?

He thinks there’s a part of him that will never be the same when she says this:
“For the first time, I wanted this.”

Oh, Ada. He wants to say.
What do I tell you to make it better?
Because, god knows. God knows I always wanted this.

—

They don't go home after going to the hospital.
Instead, Leon drives past an open field, because it’s a short road trip from Tampa to Miami. “Where are we going?” Ada mutters.

“Do you want to go back home?”

She waits a moment: “No.”

The sky is a citrus ombré with the sun burning through it. Waves of heat oscillate ahead, and it is hard to believe any of it is real.
The water on the asphalt ahead that seems to disappear the closer their car gets, the oasis beyond, and dreams of her daughter.

It all seems like some cruel joke– one she could have written herself.

Because she deserves it, doesn't she?
But he doesn't. He doesn't deserve any of it.

And yet, as one hand shifts the steering wheel, the other holds hers, tracing patterns into her palm.
He’s real. He’s there.

Sometimes, she breaks into little crying fits. Something about her hormones still trying to get it together. Or something about losing the only part of her she could understand.

He listens to her little sobs, slows the car down and pulls over. The seat belt snaps into place as he cups her cheeks and kisses their highest points, lips salty from her tears.

“How can you miss someone you’ve never met?” She asks. “I just want everything to go back to the way it was, before it all happened.”

Leon nods, though he can't agree. “Because it was easier before?”

She pauses, looks out the window.
It took her years to cope with the pain loneliness could bring. She never thought there would come a day where she’d have to learn it all over again.

Ada looks at Leon, and the sun is in love with him. It caresses his skin, dances in his eyes. And she thinks it’s one thing to lose parts of herself, but to lose a part of Leon?

In a world where their love for each other couldn't even be shared together, Maya would have been the one thing that could've been theirs.

And god, did it hurt,
to lose the one thing
that could have been
theirs.

–

The beach condo isn't what it used to be. A part of Leon is disappointed to see the large construction of several apartments overlooking the beach. As he watches people descend into the waves, he wonders if he’s the only one plunged into the past.

He blinks away what he says is sand, and walks Ada away. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“Where?” She whispers, and he kisses the corner of her mouth. “Anywhere?”

She nods. “Anywhere.”

—

They wander for a little longer than they should, the night breeze cool and unwelcoming.
They follow a plume of smoke ascending from behind the corner of some abandoned building. Trash litters the sand and plastic bags get caught around Leon’s shoe as the wind blows.

The closer they get, the less it smells like salt and the more it starts smelling like grass.

They share a look of recognition and decide why not? We’ve been through enough as it is.
Leon rounds the block first and finds a small gathering of a few people he doubts are anywhere near sober. A lanky man swaggers towards him, vodka swishing in a bottle that sways along with his dramatic gestures. He opens his mouth to speak, but what escapes him is much more unpleasant. He doubles over, heaving into the sand the remains of a very eventful night, no doubt.

Years of trained - or perhaps conditioned - stoicism allows Leon to hide it very well, but his disgust is apparent to Ada. She chuckles, leaping a leg over the man’s passed out figure and shrugs. “You wanted anywhere? I’m afraid this is it.”

Leon shakes his head, “Well. There’s a bar over there.”

Ada sighs, “I got cash.”

—

She decides that, after surviving Raccoon city and many other biological disasters, she won’t be felled by one joint.
Leon agrees.

Ada blows the plume of smoke into the air before passing it to Leon.
He tokes it and blows out the corner of his mouth. And he doesn't know if it’s the weed or just outright stupidity that makes him ask: “You ever thought of getting married?”

Ada doesn't seem to mind, only regards him for a moment and takes the joint from him. The sun makes a slow ascent up the horizon, boiling the peripheral of the sky red.

“Recently?” She asks, and he shrugs simply. “Well, ever?”

She sighs, and he can't tell what face she’s making through a haze of unruly hair swept by the wind. “Sure. I think everyone does.”

“Yeah.” He agrees, but before he can add anything, Ada faces him. “Why?” She smiles mischievously, “Wanna turn me into a Kennedy?”

When he laughs, smoke escapes him discordantly, and he coughs.

“Wanna marry me?” She sing-songs.

“Oh, come off it.” He brushes a hand through her hair, and in her eyes, he can see his face in love. He imagined waking to that face every morning, and those eyes. Those eyes that only ever reflect– skies, stars, and even his own face.
And god, of course he wants to marry her. He couldn't hide it if he tried. “Would you?”

A smile splits her face, and then it drops when she sees how serious he looks. “You're insane.”

“We're insane.” Leon says, seriously pondering convincing arguments. “I’d lay my life on the line for you and you’ve done it for me countless times. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve already exchanged vows.”

A laugh sputters out of Ada, and she shakes her head incredulously. “I don't know. I never expected you would think of me as that kind of woman.”

“That kind of woman?” He repeats, and she nods. It should be obvious by now that she didn't have the makings of a wife or even a mother. “The kind of woman who I want to belong to? That what you mean?”

“Come on,” He says, “What have we got to lose?”

“Nothing.” Ada nods, slowly, “And that's the problem. I can’t lose you when I don't have you.”

Leon frowns, “Do you really believe that?”

The waves crash against the shore, and the birds dive into the waters. Everything is still so golden in the youth of the morning. It seems like the right time to wonder: does she really believe that?

Believe. What a word, she thinks.
Thinks about the last time she’s used it– how she probably never did. Not genuinely, at least.

“Maybe, but I meant it when I said it.”

Leon pauses, and the wind brushes his hair back. Bare before her, he is heavy-lidded and calm.

“I meant it when I said I love you.”

It takes Leon a while to respond, but when he does, he says, “I know.”

—

He loves her, too, she decides– when he kneels down and pours water on her feet, watching the sand wash off before he dries them with a towel.

She leans forward, brushing his hair back. She wants to remember him like this, sun-kissed and docile against her touch. Warm and vibrant. Wild and unruly.
But most importantly, hers.

She wants to remember this togetherness at night, under the new moon. When she searches for the stars in the empty sky and tires of them. Then, she’ll remember that, once upon a sunrise, Leon was hers.

Something takes her aback, fluttering in the sky– a luminosity that shifts as the body dives lower: a butterfly, she realizes. And how curious it is.
It always feels like this, being with him. That the only way this could be right is if she thought of them as a moment of brilliance perhaps never meant to be captured, a little like that butterfly, she thinks.

Ada sighs. Would have she stayed? Would have she, really?
She doesn't know much about parenthood, but surely, it isn't right to make a child the only reason for their togetherness.
She’s seen enough of the world to know it.

Two years ago, at the after party of an art exhibition in Los Angeles. She went as Charlotte, an avid art enthusiast with a penchant for spending more than they ought to have. There was wine and champagne, and the propensity towards drinking.

Nobody noticed her glass was full, however, when the women shared secrets amongst each other. They criticized each other with such fervor that seemed too tempting to miss.
“Why’d you get divorced, anyway?” Mary muttered, “I couldn't do that to my kids,”

Ada followed the gazes of the women whose heads turned towards the now uncomfortable subject. She looked down, fiddling with her rings.
“I–” At first, she was shocked. Embarrassed, even.

And then, something shifted in her.
The kind of thing that happens once and only once.

“I didn't want my daughter to wake up to the sound of yelling and screaming. We tried everything. Therapy, communication. Whatever.” The woman raised her head, and for a moment, she regarded Ada.

In her emerald eyes, Ada found a semblance of a story.
She finally completed by saying: “I’d rather have my daughter believe in second chances than abandoning the idea of true love.”

Ada admired her glass for a little, watched the bubbles in her champagne rise to the top of the glass. When she swiped across the condensation, she revealed her own reflection.

Ada broke the silence and raised her glass, “I can toast to that.”

And she thinks that now, something has shifted in her.
Something that happens once and only once.

She kisses his forehead and he caresses her calf.
“You ready to go?” He whispers, and she nods. “Just one thing.”
Ada pries a gold ring off her pointer finger, and she thinks of her wristwatch and keychain– all Leon’s now.
She adds another item of hers to his collection when she takes his hand and slides it into his small finger.

Because maybe this way, she can be with him always, wherever he is.

Leon chuckles, “Well, that’s something. If I didn't know any better I’d get the wrong idea.”

“Depends on what the idea is.”

Leon frowns, “What are you saying?”

Ada shakes her head, and a laugh renders her breathtaking. He stares at her like a young boy, enchanted, when she takes his face in her hands. “I’m saying I want to marry you.”

He says nothing, completely shocked.
“Don't tell me you’re having second thoughts?”

And he snaps out of it, “Oh, god, what the fuck–? We’re doing this?”

She only laughs, and he kisses her like he’s breathing her in. When he lets her go, he doesn't wait to kiss her again.

–

Ada gives him her ring.
And he gives her the key to his house,
and she can't stop laughing.

Come on, he says, I don't have any jewelry on me right now!
“In any case,” He shakes his head and closes her palm around the key. “Yours, now.”

She thinks she hates that word, now. Ada thinks of something better.
“No, Leon. Ours.”

–

Second chances. 

Ada never really believed in them. In her world, she only gets one shot to get it right. 

She already flunked her one chance at becoming a mother, never really tried to do it again. 

And yet. 

The morning sickness has been going on for too long, and she’s probably quit two entire food groups to alleviate it. 

And yet. 

“I think it’s some stomach flu,” She said that morning during breakfast. The scent of Leon’s omelet had sent her into a sensory frenzy. She’d gagged and ran to the bathroom, and when he brushed her hair back for her, she panted and looked into his eyes. 

And yet. 

There's a door that separates her and Leon. Beyond it, he’s probably pacing– excited, anxious. Maybe even scared. 

She ponders her reflection in the mirror. There are scars that mar her skin, running deep and white. There are so many of them around her body that she can't recall each specific instance that brought them about. 

It doesn't matter when they all scream one thing at her. That she’s a fraud.

A thief. 

A liar. 

A killer. 

And yet. 

She turns over the pregnancy test. 

And yet, she is yet to become another thing: 

a mother. 

-

The orange leaves of fall circle around the world, turning dry and brittle in winter, then green in spring.
The leaves circle the world twice.

Similarly, Leon and Ada still circle around each other. Granted, from a much closer distance, with a few new inclusions.

A cat whose name is Timmy, a gray ragdoll whose tail twirls around Leon’s calf. When Leon scratches the top of his head, he rubs his wet nose against Leon’s gold band.

He opens the cabinet and produces an almost-empty bag of kibble, and Timmy starts yelling. Leon laughs, “Shh! Ada’s asleep, man.”
He pours the entire thing into the metal bowl and on the post-it taped to the fridge, under eggs, berries: strawberries and blackberries ONLY, and tangerines (followed by three red exclamation points), he writes: food for Timmy.

He picks up the sound of a soft yawn, and he smiles. “You're up early, I still haven't made breakfast.”

In the melancholy of fall, Ada is the closest thing to a bright sky. He approaches her and presses his hips against her back as he wraps his hands around the healthy protrusion of her stomach. She sighs against him. “You know she won't let me sleep.”

Against the fabric, he feels a little flutter, and Ada’s small moan confirms what he’s thinking. “See? She says good morning.” And Leon laughs, pressing a kiss against her neck. “You sure it doesn't hurt?” He mumbles against her skin.

She scoffs, “Trust me, I’ve been punched by much bigger guys.”

“Yeah, yeah. You're a big girl, we get it.” He releases her. “But that doesn't answer my question.”

Ada rolls her eyes, “Only when she somersaults into my ribcage. But like you said, I’m a big girl.” She pauses for a moment, “And, I’m actually really hungry.”

Leon nods, “There's a couple tangerines left. Want me to peel one for you while you wait for breakfast?”

Ada rests her elbows on the counter as she sits on a kitchen stool. “Pretty please?”

One thing she loves about her husband is that he wastes absolutely no time. “On it!”

“Thank you, love.”

–

Loads, and loads, and loads, of designer bags. 

Leon helps Ada organize them in her new walk-in closet– he’s subtle about it, though. Can't have her think that he thinks she needs the help, even though with how much the baby’s grown, she definitely does. 

“They're an investment,” She says, when he ogles the Birkin for a little too long. “In a decade they’ll be worth triple what they are now, and she can do whatever she wants with them.” 

She’d been telling him this– how excited she was to pass down her clothes and jewelry to their daughter. 

“And what if she’s a tomboy?” He teases, and Ada scrunches her nose. “Who says tomboys can't wear designer?” 

“I didn't finish,” He says, grinning annoyingly, “And she wants to dress like me– dress shirts and flannels and all.” 

And that’s what gets her: she gives him a weird face and then groans before laughing. “Okay, we’ll just have to breed out your shit fashion taste, then. One baby at a time.” 

“Breed–? Breed out?!” Leon bursts out laughing, and amidst his laughing fit, Ada starts to chuckle. “Yeah, one– one baby at a time.” 

And then they laugh harder, “It’s not even that funny, stop!”

But they don't. They laugh until their ribs hurt, or really, until Ada groans and says, “God, I have to pee.” 

“Yeah, you go do that,” Leon says, voice gradually getting higher as she disappears into the hallway, “I’ll just think about how we can start, you know, breeding out my shit fashion taste!” 

He can't hear her, but the fact that he knows she’s probably laughing makes him smile. 

– 

Ada has always been beautiful. 

But lately? She is otherworldly. 

She’d called on him to hand her a towel for when she would get out the shower, and as the glass doors opened, she glimmered among steam. 

A little like the sun among clouds. 

He looks at her fondly, wrapping around her a warm towel, but before closing it completely, he kisses her belly, and she sighs happily. 

“Come on,” He says, “Let’s get you out of here, yeah?” 

She nods, but completely doesn't see it coming when he rests an arm around her shoulder and another behind her legs before carrying her bridal style. She gasps and quickly wraps her arms around his neck.

For the rest of the night, her laughter echoes throughout the halls of their new home, until she falls asleep. 

He watches her, and sometimes, it’s hard to believe any of it is real. 

-

It’s winter– the leaves have turned dry and brittle. There are no flowers
but in her arms
blooms a little rose.

Red and warm, filled with life, squirming against her bare chest.
Ada doesn't know how she could love something so much. She’d once read that no things could ever touch, that it’s all an illusion, so she holds her daughter closer, and closer.

Against her, Leon sobs. “Are you okay?” He brushes back her hair, and when she nods, he looks at the baby in Ada’s arms. “You did so good.” Leon assures, pressing a kiss against her temple. “Thank you.” He says, “This is everything. You’ve given me everything.”

“You too,” She whispers, cupping his face and brushing back his hair. “Our everything is right here.”

Maya is no longer just
a name,
four letters,
bravery,
beauty,
a dream.

Maya is everything.

Ada gently lowers her into his arms, and she coos in his chest. He looks at Ada, and she nods, tears welling in her eyes.
He rocks her gently. “I’m here,” He says, “I’ll always be here.”

He tips his arms gently so that Ada could peer into the pool of cotton wrapped around her daughter. When they look at each other, it’s only one on his mind.

No longer just
a name,
four letters,
bravery,
beauty,
a dream.

Maya, is Their everything.