Breathless ✓

Thirty - Seven ✔

Perched on the edge of the bed, I find myself lost in contemplation, fixated on the interplay of shadows across my hands. The room is hushed, save for the rhythmic cadence of Christian's steady breaths beside me. The clock reads an ungodly hour—five in the morning—and I've been roused from a dream, the second time it's visited me with haunting familiarity.

In this dream, a rare oasis of joy unfolds. Mom, Dad, and I revel in the simplicity of a day at the park. Laughter, genuine and carefree, spills from my younger self as Dad, in playful pursuit, morphs into a pretend monster. The memory bathes me in a warmth I've seldom known. But then, as dreams tend to, it fractures, revealing the stark reality that eclipsed my early happiness.

My thoughts spiral into the abyss of the past, the echoes of a shattered soul resounding in my mind. Mom and Dad, my biological parents, decided they didn't need me. They handed me away, a precious relic relinquished. No calls, no visits—just a void left in the wake of their absence. I recall the countless hours spent by the window, eyes searching for their return.

Beside me, Christian stirs in his sleep. A reflexive reach, searching for my presence. When his fingers find only emptiness, he awakens abruptly. Relief washes over him as our eyes lock. He shifts, sitting up and leaning against the headboard.

"Come here," he beckons, his arms opening wide.

I shuffle towards him, settling astride him, my ear pressed against the steady rhythm of his chest.

"Are you okay?" he inquires.

I plant a soft kiss on his bare chest. "I am now."

"Another bad dream?" he asks, his hand tracing comforting circles on my back.

"Actually, a good one this time," I confess, fingers idly tracing patterns on my own skin. "About my birth parents."

"Really?" His interest piqued.

"Yeah," I sigh. "It's a blurry mix, unsure if it's a dream or a faded memory. Faces, just a glimpse."

I turn to face him, resting my chin on his chest. The vulnerability in his gaze invites me to share the fragments of a past that refuse to be forgotten. 

I find solace in the tender strokes of Christian's fingers against my back as I delve into the fragments of the dream-turned-memory. "I remember their faces," I say, my voice a whisper against the quiet morning. "Just bits and pieces, like snapshots frozen in time."

Christian listens, his eyes a canvas of understanding and empathy. "Tell me more, if you want to," he encourages.

Closing my eyes, I let the remnants of the dream weave through my mind like a bittersweet lullaby. "In the park, the sunlight painted everything in gold. Mom had this infectious laughter, and Dad's eyes sparkled with joy. It felt like we were a family, just for that moment. But then, the dream splinters, and then there is just... abandonment."

Christian's embrace tightens, a silent reassurance that echoes louder than words. 

I melt into him, grateful for his unwavering support. "It's just... the contrast between the happiness in the dream and the reality is huge. The illusion breaks, and I'm left with the ache of what could have been."

His thumb traces soothing circles on my back, a gentle rhythm that anchors me. "You're not defined by the past, Ria. You're strong, and you've built a life that's genuinely yours. But I'm here if you ever need to talk about it."

His words are a lifeline, grounding me in the present. "Thank you, Christian," I murmur, leaning into his comforting embrace. 

In the fragile space of shared vulnerability, Christian's voice breaks through the stillness. "Victoria, there's something else I need to tell you," he begins, his tone serious.