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When I first met her, there was no light, no glow in her eyes. So young, and yet they'd already taken the hope from her. I wondered if she'd known joy in this mockery of a home, a museum where they were more objects to ogle than humans to love.
She didn't talk much. Even as months passed, she quietly sat in a corner, observing the other kids play. Neither smiled, nor tried to mingle or play.
It reminded me of you, back then, when we had just arrived in Anakt Garden. Before our fight over the flower crown, before you began to follow me everywhere like my shadow, before our lives became undeniably and permanently intertwined.
I had no clue what to do. I could not recall whether I had ever been comforted as a child, or cradled in a loving embrace.
I wish they had let me embrace your body on the stage. I wish I had said goodbye
So I did the only thing I knew. I sat next to her, and started to draw.
She was curious, you know. Just like you. She leaned over my shoulder, and the weight of her gaze unnerved me. It felt like becoming a child all over again. You and me, under the green Anakt Garden tree. Your shoulder brushing against mine, your steady breathing tickling my cheek.
But when I turned, it was her shy, timid, smile that greeted me. Not your stupid, infuriating smirk or your smooth facade or even your crooked grin. Back then, I would have done anything to wipe them off your face.
I miss you so much. I'm sorry
In the end, she's different from what I imagined. She's sweet, but she doesn't take anyone's bullshit —I like to think she took that from me. She willingly shares her stuff with the other kids, yet she refuses to let anyone solve a single puzzle with her. She craves salty food when she's upset ever since I once cooked buckwheat pancakes for her. Her gaze goes blank when she doesn't understand something, but it's sometimes so subtle people don't notice. Many think she’s the most observant out of them all, but she’s a daydreamer at heart, and I constantly have to repeat myself to catch her attention. She's mostly quiet, but ask her about her favorite book, and she will turn into a real chatterbox. Her laugh is like soft bubbles who pop to the surface in a warm bath, and it makes me forget about the scars I wear on my neck.
She's so different from Mizi. So different from you.
And sometimes, I wish you were here instead
—
Last night, I woke up to a pair of black eyes, red pupils. They were identical to yours, and in the dimness of my room, the resemblance was troubling enough to deceive me.
The sight no longer scares me, to be honest. The little girl has become as familiar to me as you once were. She likes to crawl beside me in bed with her black bunny plushie, and I let her. I probably should scold her, send her back to her room. I can never bring myself to.
She sleeps with her eyes open, and now Ivan, let me tell you: that’s the worst thing she could have inherited from you. I know you’d be thrilled over this, but seriously? I have to wait until her breathing is slow and steady before I close her eyelids, or I might wake up to a living nightmare. And this shit doesn’t even work, because she always has them open by the time morning comes.
Oh, and she steals and hides all my pencils, too (and only mine, of course). Wouldn’t have taken her for a thief, but it became an odd habit of hers ever since I became her dad. It’s annoying as hell.
I hope she never grows out of it.
—
There is nothing, in my life, that isn’t contaminated by you. Small joys are twisted into guilt and bitterness. I wish you would leave. Sometimes, the rain isn’t as heavy anymore, and the sound of your voice starts to fade. But I won’t let it. I can’t remember your face, if not for the dozens of drawings I have made of you.
She asked me to tell her about you. So I did. I tried. But memories are a cruel thing. It is like trying to catch something that constantly slips from my grasp.
The tree. You and I. Your lolling head resting in my lap as I drew you. Your little snaggletooth. Your bruised mouth when you smiled. You told me I was a loser you sick bastard Piggybacked Mizi. Taunted me and Sua like it was your favorite pastime. I released your hand and left under the falling stars, fled far away from you. Your empty gaze when you dated those girls. Your kiss, your hands, your blood. Your hands tucked behind your back. I played the xylophone while the other kids sang, and you were standing beside me. Always beside me. Always I thought you hated me.
She said I must love you a lot. But Ivan, my love is rooted in pain. Does it still count as love if I want you to disappear from my mind forever, and yet to fill every inch of me, every empty space until there’s nothing else but you? Does it count as love if I can’t even tell you how much you matter, always have?
I hope it does I wish I knew. I wish I had the answers. I don’t. I wish I could tell Mizi. I wish she’d meet her, so she could tell her about you, about the four of us. Sua, Mizi, you, and me. Our family.
For now, there’s only me. Me and her, and the other kids that were forced into this world, born from our tragedy.
—
She told me something, a few nights back. It took me aback, and for days, it was all I could think about. Maybe I'm making a bigger deal out of it than it really is. All it took was a bedtime story (about you, of course, because she cannot go to sleep without one), so it was most likely sleepy gibberish.
Your light was born from him.
But maybe, maybe she was right. And maybe it does count after all.
I guess I’ll have to wait until next life to tell you.