Two Weeks Later
"Dinner's ready. Do you need help down the stairs?" she hesitates.
I was discharged today after getting the green flag from my physiotherapist. My legs and knees are good to go, I need to continue exercising and eating to grow into my skin again.
"No, thank you," I decline. To say this is peculiar is a minimization. My mother has been offering help. She hasn't left for work. She steps away and I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I'm less pale. I'm close to the average weight range for girls my age. I'm starting to look like myself again. My cheeks are fuller, naturally rosy as they used to be. My body is still on the thinner side. I've written a bunch of affirmation notes and stuck them to the mirror frame, as Wakatoshi advised me to do. He googled it, but I pretended not to know that.
He's been around every single day, alongside Kiyo who'd visit every other day. During my physiotherapy sessions, he helped me more than the specialist himself.
He mentally noted a few things, nodding his head along the process. I couldn't believe that he cared this much. When I needed to use the restroom, he'd walk me there until Keiko could help more.
Dare I say my cup of water was empty, or that my green tea was brought in by someone other than him. Any time I craved a snack of some sort, he'd either go to the cafeteria or run to a convenience store nearby. He'd make sure I finished my food, if he was there.
When I finally got the IV needle out, he'd told me to just focus on him and name as many types of flowers as I could remember. I didn't get very far, but I had named plenty by the time Keiko finished up.
At some random point, I realized that he used to walk with me because he 'lived in the area.' I asked him about it, confused as to how he could've been living with his mother during school when he said he goes home during breaks. He confessed that he made it up to walk with me, looking away briefly out of pure embarrassment. I was at a loss for words, so I changed the subject.
When my parents arrived, he didn't fail to greet them politely for my sake. He made little to no conversation with them. I could sense the sharpness in his tone, but I've come to realize that he has a bit of sharpness with everyone. I can never find it in our conversations, it confuses me.
The amount of patience he has is unbelievable. He'd listen to me talk and talk and talk until I had summarized my entire life's experience. He'd never zone out or tune out, he would listen. I made sure to listen to him too. I have to admit, my entire stay at the hospital brought us a million times closer.
I couldn't believe how caring he was. He would stay as long as he could, especially after he wrapped up the tournament. He was scrambling to tend to my needs even though there's a nurse I can easily call for with the press of a button. He didn't want me to be alone, both physically and mentally.
There's life in his eyes again. We would go for walks around the hospital yard or just snack in the cafeteria. I will always love him for making the most of our time together. My feelings for him could never give out, I could never move on from this. I guess I'll have to live with it.
He was the one who walked me out of my hospital room for the last time. My parents followed. Even in the elevator, he kept his forearm still so it could be like an arm rest. The little things. He wouldn't let my hand go.
He helped me in the car and stretched his hand out after letting go. I never understood why. He even shook hands with my father who thanked him for helping me. When my parents were ready to drive away, I waved tearfully to Keiko. She's been a true friend.
Then, I saw the biggest smile on his face that I'd never seen before. Teeth and all. I caught a dimple too, the cutest I've ever seen. Like a little indent in his cheek. His eyes were squinting and the sunlight made him look a hundred times more handsome. I clutched his sweater tighter as his figure grew smaller beside Keiko. I heard a buzz from my phone that my parents had brought from home.
The sweater's yours. I'm a text away if you need anything.
It hadn't occurred to me to give it back, actually. My cheeks reddened at the sight of the text.
Mrs Ito told me she and the medics had left the phone behind. When she visited, she gave me a hug. She said the medics barged in and found me on the floor. She had arrived with them, but left her car at my house to stay with me in the ambulance. She didn't tell me much about that night, sensing the impact it had on me.
We didn't talk about how I'd cried for help over the phone. I thanked her for listening to me, that's all I could say. She left the past behind, and I love her for that. She wiped her cheek and said she can't wait to have me back in her classroom, remarking that my seat is awfully empty.
My parents both offered to help me out of the car, but I didn't need it. I walked in and made my way to my room swiftly. I want things to go back to normal.
I'm making my way back up. My health is improving with my supplements and daily affirmations. I'm starting to love myself again. I never thought I would, but gradually I will. That little girl needs it more than I do. I made a promise to myself and secretly, to him. Promises that need to be fulfilled.
I am beautiful, I remind myself. I tug on my t-shirt. I like how messy my braid looks, I've been wearing it like that for the past few days.
She looks alive and she feels alive. I've been pushing myself to read and get back into my gardening. Weeks in the hospital leave a dangerous amount of weeds in the flower bed. I sat on my knees beside it, and worked away until the sunset. They look neat and elegant now, no longer exhausted as I was. I haven't had the courage to write again. I tried to pick up my pen in the afternoon, to no avail.
When I first stepped into my room, there was a lump in my throat. The same tenebrous place I had left. Messy sheets, pill bottles, and an untidy desk. The carpet, which had seen my worst, looked unfazed. Despite Dr. Amane telling me to rest, I threw out the pill bottles and cleaned my room. It felt like I was disposing of that night. I detoxed the surfaces like I was detoxing the past.
I make my way downstairs, and take my place on the dinner table slowly. I admit I'm not looking forward to it. I'll have to sit through it and pretend it never happened.
Mother has cooked a simple dinner, a stew. By the time I realize she hasn't cooked a stew in forever, she's scooping food onto my plate for me. I thank her and eat carefully. It's delicious. It's flavorful and savory, so warm I feel it on the inside. There's a lump in my throat, I swallow it with another bite.
It's excruciating to have to sit here and try to slow down. I don't show her that I like her food. I refuse. I won't be vulnerable to her again. I refuse for things to go back to how they were this easily.
We sit there like phonies, trying to act like a family. It's the most annoying thing I've ever had to endure. I don't know why I can't stand it. I can't stand them giving each other looks and sitting at one table with me. Every bite they take ignore all the times I waited on them to come home and have dinner with me. Are they seriously trying to make up for all of it? Why won't they say anything?
I'm probably overthinking it. They most likely took a day off and they have to spend it with me. The last time we were together in this house of misery, they had nothing better to do than destroy me, then leave without another word for a business trip. Leaving me behind in ruins, burning to the ground.
I can't do it. I can't stand Father's jolly face as he smiles at me and digs his spoon back into his food. I can't stand her stern face that's a little less hard today. 'Do you need help down the stairs?' What is going on?
I scoop up a softened potato in my mouth, and I chew on it. I understand. They're being all weird and soft because I collapsed. I fell apart. I broke.
And so did they. Things are different now, there isn't a little girl left for them to build and then slowly shatter all over again. She isn't sitting at home in solitude, waiting for them behind the door.
That's what this is. The start of being normal. They're going to be loving and pretend nothing ever happened. It hits me like a blow to the heart, I feel fooled and bruised. Anger flares beneath my skin.
It's when I finally finish my plate and excuse myself when Mother urges me to have more. It's almost funny, how she puts her hand out and screws her eyebrows together. My father agrees with her, yet I stay stern on my refusal, assuring them I'm full. They care about my intake because I lost weight. I walk over to the sink and put my plate down, crossing off half the expedition in my mind. I feel sick.
"I have lots of catching up to do, please excuse me." My gaze hardens.
"We need to talk, Hana," she says.
I hear the softness in her tone, I catch her glistening eye. I see red. "There's nothing to talk about, Mother," I say, voice low. I'm testing her limits.
"Of course there is. Please take a seat," she says nicely. I snap.
"I know exactly what you're going to say. I know exactly what you're going to do. And I'm not falling for this."
"Excuse me?" she states.
"Why are you doing this? Because you know you broke me?" I say.
She says nothing, her eyes are hurt.
"Do you feel bad? Is that what this is? You feel bad that I was on the floor screaming for help like a lunatic, that I looked like a corpse for weeks? I get it. A warm meal and a family charade to make me forgive you. Really? I thought you'd try a little harder. Maybe an 'I love you' or a 'We're here for you' to seal the deal. Something to really make it believable," I spit venom like I've been poisoned.
"Enough," Father says.
I wish I could've stopped there, but something inside me broke, more than it had already been destroyed.
"You still think I'm twelve, don't you? You think this act will soften me up so you can break me. So I can wait on you all over again and look for your approval. You're wrong. I don't want your compassion, or your help, or your desolate care, or that pity on your faces! I don't want it. I'm done pretending that I'm not hurt and embarrassed so you can leave me alone," I yell, tone rising. The words spill right out.
"Do you know how humiliating this is? Look at me, Mother!" I scream once more, turning my back to them and raising my t-shirt so they have to look at my scar. My mother covers her mouth, tears brimming her eyes. A gash, not nearly as big as the slash in my heart.
"Look at me. Look at what I've become. Look at how destroyed I am. I broke, so I have to sit here and watch you both try to make up for everything you screwed up! I have to eat your food, and pretend not to like it, and pretend that I'm fine. Because I know the second I start to forgive you, you'll hurt me again. You'll leave. I have to watch you pretend that I mean something to you," I rasp, my voice breaks.
"I was never anything to you, the three of us know that. And I will never forgive you for making me feel that way." I gasp for air, the lump in my throat chokes me.
"Please." Mother sheds a tear.
"I will never forgive you for making me like this, thinking of my own parents as people who hurt me. I will never forgive you for making me stand here and yell like this. I will never forgive you for starving me of your love, for making me wonder what could be so wrong with me that my own mother won't treat me like her daughter. What was so hard about coming home to me? What was so hard about telling me that I'm enough? Was it that hard for you to take care of me, Mother?" The rage grows in my chest and I finally say it, years of pain balled into my voice.
"Hell, looking at me like I'm the child you gave birth to. I'm your only daughter, goddammit! Treat me like it," I scream with all my might, then inhale deeply. I'm hyperventilating, the words dragging my breath away.
"I have spent my whole life sitting at this wretched table, waiting for you to come home. I would dream of the day you would look me in the eye, and not have that displeased look on your face. Do you have any idea how disgusting you made me feel?" I exclaim, pointing to the table.
And there it is, the rage finally spills out. A rage of femininity that empowers my voice like sharpening a blade against a plate of diamond. It's boiling hot, a solution of adrenaline and warm blood pulsing through every part of my body that has been hurt.
Everything and anything, I ball it up and spit it out at them. And, god, it feels so good. It feels like a cobra shedding skin. Breathing a fire of anger I'd swallowed for so many years, only for it to burn me. This is what you've made me, Mother. Your daughter.
Now, I watch as knots come loose. And, word by word, I piece myself back together. All the composure I'd bound my wrists with burns to the ground I plant my feet on. I'm not one to yell, but I've never had a fit of fury this delicious. I'm in a state of emission, and I want to hold the reins a little longer, for the girl I used to be.
"There's so much I want to say and so much more I want to scream. So many aches that I want to give back to you, because I'm sick of it. I'm sick of having to remember, and watching you both throw all that I've gone through away. You know why? Because you never acknowledged it in the first place. You weren't there when I would fall asleep in my tears, or when my heart was broken, or when I'd live off leftovers, and overthink for hours on end, or when I'd spend my days and my nights absolutely alone. You weren't there, so it doesn't exist to you." My face twitches and I realize I'm looking at them with disgust, with horror, with tears running down my face.
"You moved on, you're here. All of a sudden, I matter to you. You think that I'm healed and ready to start fresh because they pumped me back to life. But I haven't moved on. I don't know if I ever will, or if that hell I lived through will ever let me go. But I refuse to forget it just because you want to make amends." I calm down, lips trembling. Things sizzle down.
"I waited on you, and you failed me. You left me behind when I needed you the most. You let me down. I will never forgive you for making me think it was the other way around," I say, my voice echoing across the haunted walls.
"I will never forgive you," I repeat, again and again. My voice cracks. There's a shiver down my spine and a silence so lethal it could kill me. The hot, salty tears keep running as I break into sobs.
Mother looks up at me in pure dismay. I sob as I look at her, as a child looks at her parents after she scrapes her knee or loses her stuffed animal. My face is scrunching and I feel like a tall child, embarrassingly shying away from them and trying to pull myself together. I look at them both, tears flooding every part of me. The blurs in my vision are growing larger and larger until the tears spill all over again.
I don't take my eyes off of them, because I'm waiting for their disapproving looks. I'm waiting for their faces to change, and I'm daring their features to look disgusted. I don't look for their approval anymore, but a part of me wonders what they could possibly be thinking.
She stands there plainly. I didn't realize she had stood up. No tears anymore. My father is still on the table, his fingers digging into his forehead and his temple. Frozen. Both of them are stunned, to say the least. Their mouths are closed, still as stone. They're numb, eyes digging into the ground. I watch them do absolutely nothing and I wonder if they're even there.
Something burns behind my eyes again. My knees weaken and I can't stop drowning in my tears.
I stand there, head in my hands, listening to those nights replay like a double-edged sword piercing through my back only to come out through my stomach. My fingertips tighten against my ears, desperate to shut the memories out. Please, please, please.
This is what it's come to.
A daughter yelling at her parents, screaming her heart out for the hell she's had to walk through alone. Parents who have no idea how far things have gone. At least, that's what the daughter is thinking. A father staring at his little girl whose hand he used to hold, filled with a kind of sadness so mellow. The mother who stands before her daughter and cries for the first time in years.
The mother that realizes she has destroyed her own daughter.
One house they could not make a home. A home that had a sense of warmth, now colder than the wind whipping at its exterior. The walls are lonely, pasty white with echoes reverberating off of them. Full of furniture that's recollecting dust, abused by its neglect. Two people, speechless. Facing the person that is a half of each of them, grown into the darker halves. Going paler by the minute, gaze wandering and burying their words. Two that have likely gone through hell themselves. Three souls with complicated bonds that are knotted with heartstrings and claw marks. Bonds that are otherworldly. Ones that may be too far gone to repair.
I sit on the floor. Ten minutes of the three of us marveling at the revelations laced with toxic trauma, how much we've gone through, how much we've projected it onto each other. Soon after, my mother sits down. As my father sits in the medium between us, my mother says, "Do you want me to tell you?" She catches my eye fearfully.
"Tell me," I dare her. The past. That's what she means. This might be worth listening to.
My father watches her try to catch her words, stroking her shoulder quickly.
"I was you. I had that anger of yours, but I never showed it to a soul. I grew alone. I was the exact same as you. The difference was that my mother would reach for my face, and my drunk father would reach for my arms." She looks away suddenly, losing focus, eyes peeling open with horror.
"I wasn't as responsible as you, I was impulsive. I would often make mistakes, only to wake earlier than my sisters to cover the bruises the next day. Even when I showed emotions, especially through tears, they'd find an excuse to punish me. To take their anger and frustration out on me. Gradually, I learned to endure those nights without crying. I'd usually wear long sleeves to cover the bruises, even in the summers I spent at home. Even then, I didn't hide it enough."
"Your aunts and I, we built a system. We covered and lied for each other. Being the oldest daughter, things were always harsher for me. I'd take beatings for their mistakes because I failed to be a proper role model. I never resisted. I continued to raise them, to teach them, but I grew cold to them. And they grew cold to me. I beat my feelings so much, I wondered if I still had them. I locked away everything I ever felt because I couldn't grow into two people. I never had the skill." I bring a hand to my lips. Her face? Her arms?
"I was prim and perfect for my parents very quickly, so there were less bruises by the time I was seventeen. I was to be wed early because I grew into my mother's good cooking. My father would say I was blessed with her hands, even though he'd be the one to hurt them. I put it off because I knew that the moment I left that house, my sisters would have to step into harsher roles they weren't ready for. They'd have to fend for themselves. They weren't ready, and I knew I wasn't ready to run either. I had to stay to protect them, prepare them, and prepare myself."
"Somehow, I convinced my father to allow me to continue my studies, merely for the sake of earning money. So, I began college. I became stricter with my younger sisters in the last years together. I knew it was the only way to make them tough, to make them perfect enough to break free."
"But I never laid my broken hands on them," she says with a voice so torn and shredded, so strained and cracked. Her eyes peel open as she looks down at her trembling hands.
"Soon enough, they got married one by one. I'd find a way to talk to their suitors. If I saw that they were going to harm my sisters, I'd find a sufficient reason to make my parents break off the deal. For all three of my sisters, I would pull them aside the night before they'd leave and apologize as best as I could." Her face twitches.
She breathes hard as she says, "But, no matter how hard I tried, I could never shed a tear for what I'd done. I'd choke up the words and lose them. They were better than me, they forgave me. But they were too far gone, they didn't shed any tears or sentiments for me, for the years of sisterhood we never got to live together. I begged them, bowing with my head and hands on the floor, but there were no emotions or words left to say. Nothing left to do. I had done enough damage. Forgiveness was the bare minimum I deserved. My youngest sister Airi, she said the exact same words as you, 'I'll never forgive you.' She lives in Tokyo with her husband now, a good man. I am truly happy for her. They all moved with their husbands to other districts or areas. They escaped, that's why you don't know them. They don't need the nightmare from the past."
"Don't say that," my father says, rubbing her shoulder.
"It's true," she says lowly, "I've become my parents' daughter. I'm no better than them." She shrugs, clinging to her frame in disgust, looking to the floor before walking me through the rest of the story.
"My parents found me a suitor immediately, your father. He had seen me around my college and asked for my hand."
"We were wed and I left that house with no sister to bid me goodbye. Your father's family took me in. They saved me. I left that house with an anger I'll never forget. I didn't get the chance to tell my sisters what I'd endured. They'd witnessed only a fraction of it, but they'd never known that I was protecting those three little girls with every ounce of strength and endurance I had. I figured that they're better off without me. I paid the price willingly, but only because I want them to be happy. That's all I want." Her tears spill as she narrates it so emptily. She smiles hysterically, tears rolling one by one. She has lost all that was important to her, family. My mother is crying. A sight I never thought I'd witness.
"I never told a soul of what happened to me and my sisters in that house." Her voice is haunted, packed with emotions she can't express.
"I never found a way to show my parents how much they scarred me. That anger, all those years of pain and abuse, I never learned how to control them. I wish I could've told them that my biggest mistake was growing cold to my own sisters. I lost them, just as my parents lost all of us. I lost myself throughout the years. Punctuality was my only trait, something that made me respected and valued."
"I was afraid of what the life of my own child would look like. Your father's family needed a successor. I fooled myself into believing that I was past everything that happened, mainly because I didn't feel it. I was afraid of what I'd do with my own daughter or son." Her eyes glisten, tears running down her cheeks as she covers her mouth ashamedly.
"But if there was anything I could guarantee about bringing a child into this world, it was that I'd never let you cover up a bruise. I could never raise a hand at you without remembering what happened to me, the thought of it made me sick. When you were born, depression followed me everywhere, and your father mostly took care of you. I couldn't face you. I couldn't face a fresh start. I can sit here and tell you how terrible that was, but I won't burden you. As you grew, I heard my mother in my words. I heard her insults, I heard her echoes. It was like I was shut back home. Everything I escaped came back to me in the way I never expected, my own voice," she spits out. She's shaken.
"I never learned how to be better. I was set in my ways," she gasps.
"I wasn't taught that children needed to be loved or validated, because I never had that. I was taught children need to be perfect to honor their parents' sacrifices, that they shouldn't be burdens. I figured you'd find whatever you needed in your father. His parents were kind, but they were still strict about his life. They didn't hurt him, and I thought that would make him the better parent. He is the only person who knows the reality of my household. When I told him, he helped me." My father nods, staring intently at her. Love.
"I tried to use my emotions. I tried to be the loving mother I never had. But I could never imitate a person who didn't exist." Tears shoot down her face as she stares down into her hands.
"I could only remember the strikes I'd bear for my tears. For my patience and kindness. I could only remember the painful retching in the toilet bowl when I couldn't take the aches in my torso any longer. When the headaches made me nauseous, when my ankles couldn't hold me up, when the bruises flourished into shades of purple. I resided permanently in the nights I'd lie awake. The nights I'd beg."
The composure in her voice as she narrates her nightmares scares me. The fact that she didn't specify what she begged for scares me.
'I could never imitate a person who didn't exist.'
The tears run down my face as I stare at her aging face, sparkling momentarily with the youth that was stolen from her.
"The company was my only escape from the home I was supposed to love. The daughter I can't take care of. The life I couldn't bear. I wanted to honor our family for saving me. That's why it means so much to me to be reputable. Work was an escape, working robotically where I don't need to use my emotions or remember anything at all."
"I saw that your health spiraled and the thought of such a failure was a motive to push you away. I knew that if you relied on me, I'd never be a good mother to you. You wouldn't be able to escape me. I was afraid that if your illness progressed, you wouldn't know how to take care of yourself. I thought, for all these years, that I was making you tougher. More independent. I thought I'd won over the cycle," she scoffs.
"I saw my sisters in you, and fearfully, myself." She trembles. She breathes.
"That's who we were, who we are. Young girls with their youth stolen from them, forced to become mothers, forced to become soldiers, forced to be everything."
"Though I was against it, your father encouraged me to start therapy. I've been going regularly for the past couple of months. I was diagnosed and soon prescribed with medication for depression. My mental health is improving." She looks ashamed again.
There's a silence as I take everything in. She was helping me escape her. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. She's unravelling before me like ribbon, and I say nothing.
"I was convincing myself that I'd magically become the perfect mother, because I was harnessing my past and finding a way to heal. I never changed. I didn't come home. I was improving, but you were worsening. The night you collapsed, that was my biggest regret. I don't know what I was thinking." Her voice is eerily low and numb.
She stops. Half-words start slipping out and there's knots of stuttering. She's so desperate to fill in the gaps that it hurts.
"Everything I've done, everything I've said, I regret it. If I could take it back, I would. I would do anything to fix what I've destroyed. If you want to keep yelling, do it. I want to hear everything you have to say. I want you to let it all out, before it's too late. I want you to be better. Be better than me. Yell, Hana. Yell," she cries, imploring me with her remaining breaths.
Suddenly, she loses it. She starts balling her eyes out, turning away from me. My father embraces her.
She looks to me, cracks in her eyes, fractures in her face. The face of destruction, the face of scarring. She tries not to lose her composure, but she bursts. Likely, for the first time in years.
"You don't have to forgive me. You don't have to do anything. If you want to move out or want me gone, I'll go. As long as you're healthy and safe from me. As long as you're happy. That's all I've ever wanted, but I never realized that I took it away from you. I swear that's all I ever wanted. You're right. I failed you. I failed. I failed as a mother and as a friend. I didn't try hard enough. But I couldn't do it, I couldn't," she sobs.
"I was back home. Back on the floor of my bathroom on the black carpet, back under their hands, back to it all. I thought it was over, I thought it was gone. My efforts weren't enough. I couldn't do it. I failed. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Her voice stiffens against my father's shoulder.
She repeats and kneads her words again and again. She shakes her head over and over, realizing she hasn't escaped her house. She never left at all.
She falls apart and I do too. Seeing a new side of my mother does something to me. It shakes me to my core. My life comes undone.
Both of us are crying, and soon enough, I'm spread on the floor, drowning in my tears in her arms. We sit there for hours, crying through the pain in our hearts. She picks up my head every now and then, wiping my eyes with her thumbs and giving me a kiss. With each one, I shiver.
We talk. The more we open up, the more our bond seems to rekindle. We've both suffered enough.
She holds back her sobs as I reflect on my worst moments without her. She refuses to make it about her while I'm grieving. At some point, she'd wrap her arms around me and incessantly apologize before pulling away and pulling herself together. She reminds me that it's okay not to forgive her.
My father joins in, tears lighting his eyes. He apologizes too. He hugs me and reassures me that he vows to be better. I forgive him because he's trying.
I told her about Wakatoshi, about my heartbreak, about it all. I hear her call me her 'sweet girl' and talk me through it. My highlight is her telling me that she's proud of me. That she's always been proud of me and always will be. I lose my mind.
At some point in those long hours, I found forgiveness. I chose serenity. I chose to accept my mother, to accept the person who unfolded before me. There would be no logic in holding it all against her.
She was a young girl like me, one that was thrown into the flames. This is her first time living life too. She grew into her mother when she needed one herself. She tried, but she said it herself, she couldn't imitate a person who didn't exist. I chose to accept her thorns and her flaws, because I knew she was on the road to recovery. She was mending herself to mend me.
The cycle she lived through makes me sick.
The thought of my mother hitting me never once existed. But the way she described it, she would beg them to spare her. It was like I could hear her screams. I could imagine it and I wished I couldn't.
She promises me that we can work together, that we can heal together. I tell her it's never too late. She asks me where we can start, what I'm comfortable with. I tell her to stay by my side. I know that it's especially tough to be this emotional and vulnerable. She says her psychiatrist is helping her navigate that, and I overflow with happiness.
She and I have many more obstacles to overcome, new boundaries to set, fresh schedules, and routines to develop to move forward together. A fresh set of vocabulary words and ointments for the wounds in our hearts and bodies. But, I'm willing to do it. I'll take it on. I'll do it. I'll find a way to accept the full table and the warm meal. I'll find my own way to love her, and she will too.
I never thought I'd see this day. The day I'd embrace her. It's a fever dream. I never believed this home would start to look more welcoming. A night so blurry, full of new emotions I can't describe. Serenity. Forgiveness. Peace.
She plants a kiss on my cheek, one that warms it for a while. One that I'll never forget. One that I give back to her tired face. The face that stares at me in shock as we flip the blank page together.
For the young girls in the both of us.
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Author: i'm so sorry for diving back into the angst i swear this is it 😭 and another apology for the unbelievably long chapter what