Stars in our Hearts

Twenty One

C

༻✧༺
you are a memory waiting to happen and yet, i hold onto you so i don't forget.
༻✧༺

I stayed in her arms for a long time. Her warmth was home to me. A place so soft and... warm. I've heard love being described as warm. Friends don't feel warm for each other, they feel safe and hidden away from the world. She's a blanket, not hiding me, only protecting me. She can't hide me from anything, but she can be there for me, keeping me safe until I have the energy to face my fears.

She's giving me her energy, she's letting me recharge.

This isn't warmth.

This is something more.

She took small breaths against my neck.

I let her straddle me, let her find quiet in this chaos.

"When I was eight, my dad told me I was meant to do beautiful things." She began to speak. Her voice was entrancing, a spell I've been waiting to fall in.

"You are," I replied because she was.

"Shh, don't interrupt." She said softly in my ear.

"Sorry." I stayed quiet for her. She had things to say and I was here to listen to them. No matter how long it would take.

"I believed him, obviously, every little girl would believe their fathers." She began. "My dad wasn't anything special though, he was a florist. Not the kind that make wedding bouquets and make a lot of money, but the kind that sell flowers on the street. Every Friday, he'd tell every customer he got that day that it was his daughter's birthday... my birthday. He'd make a very special bouquet for me. Every Friday, it would consist of different flowers. Did you know every flower has a different meaning?"

We're in a room filled with plants and flowers. "I didn't know, obviously."

She looked up from my shoulder, laughing softly. "Right, of course you knew. You nature loving freak."

I laughed with her, "In my defense, it's a good thing."

"He only did that for me every Friday because every Friday I'd watch my mom on the screen. She was this beautiful woman who stole people's hearts. She was everything I wanted to have. I missed her and I didn't know her, unbelievable right?" She continued. Every breath she took, she drew tiny shapes on my back, connecting shapes. I didn't know what it was exactly.

"As I grew older, I watched her grow as well. She was soft at first, lively and free. But by the time I turned sixteen, she was stricken and broken. Watching her on TV wasn't the same anymore. She looked so sad and so empty. It was as if she was missing something."

"You, she was missing you." I added. She sounded so weak. This version of Alida wasn't the one she showed people. It's hard hiding vulnerability when it wants to scream at everyone. I wonder how long she kept it locked away.

"In her life, yes. She no longer had a purpose. She achieved all her goals, had people kissing her feet in respect, and walked all over people. She's a beautiful designer and that little girl in me is filled with pride that my mother has that talent, because now I have that talent." As she drew her connected shape, I rubbed her back.

"But the older girl in me, the one that grew up without a mom, that grew up without a mother's touch or kiss, is disappointed in her. Her job wasn't to chase her freedom or her dreams, because as soon as she had me, I was supposed to be her dream and her freedom. Me. I was neglected, not only by a mother but by a friend." I rubbed again and again, letting her know that I was here. She needed comfort. She needed this, we both did. "But my dad made up for it. He loved me more than she ever could. He gave me the love of a mother and a father. On Sunday's, we watched movies. On Monday's, we'd play board games. On Tuesday's, he'd teach me about flowers. On Wednesday's, we'd scrapbook together. On Thursday's, he'd listen to my stories. On Friday's, we'd sit in silence, and on Saturday's..."

Her voice broke apart, she sniffled, wiping her tears on my shirt. "On Saturday's, he'd take me to see the stars." I waited for her to cry a little more, the only comfort I could give was my touch. From the way she breathed in slowly, it was helping.

I was helping her.

"My dad loved the stars. He loved them, sometimes I believed he loved them more than me. One night, I told him what I believed. He laughed and said, "The stars are my friends. You have friends, right?" I remember nodding, eagerly. I wanted to hear what he had to say so I waited. "They're my only friends. They listen to me cry, laugh, scream, perish. If I were to disappear, it's because the stars took me in." I was only sixteen when he told me that. I didn't really understand what he meant. Sure, I talked to the stars about feelings and I drew them everywhere but I didn't understand why he loved the stars so much. Until he told me, "When the world is quiet, but it's too loud for people to listen to what's in my heart, I go to the stars and I speak to them. Because they listen, they listen when it's too loud for me to hear my own heart." That's when I understood what he meant."

She softly cried in my shirt and I let her.

We both had tears that needed to be seen, to be wiped away.

And we were here for each other, for as long as we needed.

For as long as we wanted.

"He loved you so much, Alida." I whispered in her ear.

:He still loves me," she admitted to herself. She wanted to believe so. It was true, not a belief. My stupid words were... stupid. Pure idiocy.

"And I had no right to say any of the shit that I said." I swallowed the embarrassment, let myself drown in the cruel words.

"We say things out of anger, sometimes it's the truth, other times it's blinded by the truth."

"When I said that I was thinking about-"

"Jeremy, I know."

"I forgive you, Crius. But it hurts, because now I think that he didn't love me enough. I wonder if... if those letters are even real. I see the envelopes he made, and the stamp that was placed on his desk, but deep down I'm wondering and I'm doubting it."

"They're real."

"How do you know?" Her voice quieted down, barely audible to my ears even though she was right next to me.

"Because you can feel it. Deep down, you know those letters are real. You know that one night your dad was sitting at his desk writing those letters and private so you could never find out." I nudged her with my shoulder so she could look at me.

"He didn't have a desk, he used to sit on the ground in front of a fireplace." She sniffled.

I smiled, "Well then, he was sitting on the ground in front of your fireplace writing those letters to your mother."

"He loved her. He loved my mom. He didn't have anything against talking about her either. He's always told me how some people need to live before living."

"Some people need to live before living," I repeated.

"Like us. We need to live before we choose to let go and begin again, but with a new sense of direction. He was living as a dad, before that he lived as a man, a boy, a child. His end-goal was to be a father."

"Your dad was a man of his words. He should've written a book."

"He did." I looked at her in shock and smiled. "Not a storybook, but a book of flowers and their meanings. I don't have it because he gave it away to someone."

"Really? He handed his work to someone else?" There was nothing of him left for her, other than these letters.

"Yeah, but I don't mind because he wasn't just anyone." She took a deep breath, not breaking our connection. "He was my first love."

There's another one?

"First love? Isn't your first love Sorin?"

"No. Now that I think about it, Sorin was just... a crush. Nothing more."

"Nothing more... I see. So tell me about this, first love of yours."

"I called him buttercup."

Stars. She was drawing stars on my back.

And as she did that, I remembered my name.

I was buttercup.