Flower Girl | h.s.

62.

Daisy

As a child, I remembered the stories that were told to me by my mother. I knew that those stories grew with you, they'd become realities in their own ways.

We'd make decisions based on luck, based on our instinct, based on our will. The people around us influenced us, they turned us into people we wouldn't recognize.

I stare at Harry as he spells out the details for me piece by piece. I see the sadness, followed by the regret. The words are encompassed by trauma that surfaced as he told the story, as if the blood was on his hands.

It was covered up by the woman wearing gloves. Eve covered it up for him; I pushed the feeling of anger far away. This wasn't about her, this was about us. This was about his relationship with me– our love for one another, and the sacrifices he's made to keep us together.

He read directly from the page, word for word. Every moment that he could recall from that night was directly influenced by the words he told me, the letters he had written to me in his deepest moments alone. He had wanted me to hear it all from him, all in the confines of space where it felt right to him.

In front of the ocean, in front of me, right from his chest.

I hadn't been prepared to hear it. In some ways, I felt an acceptance to move forward— move forward like nothing happened. That was how I was raised, to ignore the struggles that we face and to put on a smile.

Talking about them would only bring up issues that we didn't have to talk about. My mother never wanted to accept; my father never wanted to acknowledge.

Harry was trying so hard to be heard. I knew what it was like to ignore it. So, I listened. I saw him for who he was in his most vulnerable moments of fear, of sacrifice, of confusion. He was just a kid who wanted to make it right, to love and to be loved.

He read stories of how felt, of the moments he realized he'd never get back. Of the times that he spent wondering where it all went wrong, and if he would ever forgive himself. Of the moments when Eve assured him that his thoughts simply weren't valid.

I held his hand through it all. I wasn't going anywhere, and he needed to understand that no word he could say would make me leave without an explanation. I needed him to know that leaving was never the first response.

The moment he finished reading the journal, I noticed that his fingers shook as he reached up to shut the notes together. The breeze in the afternoon air only brushes against my cheek, breaking me from reality.

Now I knew where he was April 29th.

That rainy day: the day that he learned the fate of someone he tried so hard to help, someone that had been such a part of his existence for better or worse. There was so much that he didn't have to say that I already knew.

I knew that he loved her every moment, even when it was hard.

She loved her family– no mother stopped loving her children. No mother would ever leave her children if she thought it wasn't for their best interest. I couldn't understand the struggle of being so far away that she knew that she would never come back to them.

We don't say anything else. We don't speak; he looks at the leather moleskin journal that his fingers are wrapped around.

Finding words is difficult, so I try my best just under the circumstances of needing to feel wanted. I don't want him to feel alone; I don't want him to feel unheard. I want him to feel the complete opposite, even if that meant sitting in silence for a beat or two longer.

"Harry." I say with a quivered lip, know recognizing the unsteadiness of my words. "I still love you."

Instantly, his eyes shut. He's trying to block the love away, so my hands move to his wrists as I pry his heart open.