“Hey, sweetheart,” I whisper, voice catching on the wind. “I brought you daisies and baby’s breath.”
The words spill from me, quiet and cracked. I tell her about my day about the noise, the silence, the ache that follows me home.
I tell her how her daddy and I are struggling, how I don’t know how to fix what’s breaking between us.
How some days, I still reach out for her in the dark the instinct older than memory.
“I wish you were here,” I say, voice trembling. “Not like this. Not in the ground. I wish you were still breathing, still warm in my arms.”
The tears come without sound. Just the soft crunch of chips between sentences, the fizz of Fanta in my throat.
I break off a piece of chocolate, let it melt slow on my tongue, tasting sweetness against sorrow.
The fairy lights flicker. The night deepens.
“Goodnight, my girl,” I whisper finally, leaning forward to press my lips to the cold marble.
It steals my warmth, holds it for a moment, then gives nothing back.
I walk inside, shedding the day piece by piece, shoes by the door, clothes across the floor.
The shower runs hot, too hot, until my skin stings and the mirror fogs.
When I finally crawl into bed, the sheets are cool, the silence vast.
Sleep doesn’t come easy. It never does. But I close my eyes anyway, whispering her name into the dark until it carries me under.
Morning
The light filters pale and gold through the curtains, soft as forgiveness.
For once, I let it touch me.
I move slow. Coffee, a slice of toast I don’t finish, hair pulled back into something resembling order. The world feels fragile, but I step into it anyway.
Outside, the air is crisp, the sun stretching over rooftops like it’s trying to start again.
I walk instead of drive needing the air, the small slice of Vitamin D, the rhythm of my steps on cracked pavement.
By the time the city comes alive around me, engines chatter, the smell of roasted coffee and asphalt rises, and I almost feel human again.
Almost.
And by the time I reach the building’s glass doors, I’ve stitched the smile back onto my face.
The one that says I’m fine.
The one no one ever questions.
Inside, the elevator hums softly as it climbs.
I stare at my reflection in the mirrored walls calm, composed, unbreakable.
A lie I’ve perfected.
My mind drifts to the feature I’m supposed to be writingthe story of the digital age,a deep dive into deception, curated perfection, and all the lies we feed each other online.
But I can’t find the pulse of it.
