I wished you’d stop playing with my heart. What do you want from me with your pleasant words and meanings that go haywire? What do you want from me, who is not that girl you tried to hold hands with today? What the hell do you want from me?

Today.

I heard the music. It was really beautiful. Watching you eased my heart.

Then you messaged me. Thanked me for going.

You said you missed my hugs.

For once in a long time, I smiled like a child. 

Thank you. 

Child

Do you remember Irelia? Our little girl? You said that was her name. You named her after a video game character. But I loved the name the moment I heard it. You would reference to her at times. You never knew how that would make my heart melt into liquid gold. 

I had begun loving her before I knew it. She was not even born yet, not even conceived, but I loved her already. She was beautiful. Surely, she’d drive me insane one day, but damn it all, that would be okay because I loved her already. 

I could feel her tiny, fragile and soft hand wrapping around my fingers, brushing against my cheek. I could feel her weight in my arms and I would be surprised how she seemed so light and so heavy at the same time. I could feel the feeble heartbeat under her blankets. I could feel her comforting warmth, melting the darkness in my mind. I could feel how she’d squirm under my kiss. I could hear her gurgling laugh. Her heartbreaking and ear piercing cries. Her eyes were mirrors of yours, but there were signs of me in those depths. 

We’d walk in the garden every chance I had. I’d read her stories on our bench when you weren’t here. I’ll tell her about you, about us, about fairytales, about love, about the universe, about how I’ve been dreaming about her for years and years. I’d teach her how to paint. She’d mess up my paints and I’d get mad but that would be okay because I’d probably frame her mess. 

She’d love you more because you would be home less than me. She’d complain about me to you and she’d hug your leg, your neck so tightly like I would when you came home. 

You’d teach her how to be strong, how to be righteous, how to achieve her dreams. You’d teach her when to care and when not to care. You’d teach her everything she needed to know about the world around us. 

I’d teach her how to hold a soft heart, how to know when she was wrong, how to be kind. I’d teach her that the world was good, just people made bad choices. I’d teach her that there was always something we could learn from everyone.

But together, we’d teach that love could last. Hope was the most important. And we’d teach her to never give up on what she hold dearly because miracles happen, for she was a miracle herself. A miracle of us coming back together again. A miracle that was all I hoped for. 

But now she’ll never feel the warm sun on her skin, the gentle breeze against her skin. She’ll never feel the grass peeking through her toes as she circled our garden. She’d never even be born.

You would rather not let her live. You rather pretend she did not exist. Not with me. And because of me. 

I had to strangle my own child when I had to burn the house we made, my fragile, my precious child because my mistakes kept you from coming back to me. She would not be mine. You’d only let her be yours. You took away my chance of being her mother. You’ll give that chance to someone else.

She did not exist anywhere beyond our hopes that you abandoned and that I betrayed, but damn it all, I loved her already.

I still do.