Page 107 of Eternal

AZRA

“Let It Go” by James Bay

Present

“ D id she braid your hair like that?”

His voice was quiet, like he was afraid of spooking something fragile, like me.

He was asking about my mother, and for a second, I didn’t know how to answer. The question felt too... careful, too intimate.

He was trying to understand me, and that alone felt strange. But I wanted to tell him.

It’s weird, isn’t it? Wanting to talk about her, even after everything we went through, like maybe if I say the good parts out loud, the happy memories, it won’t hurt as much to think about her.

It’s stupid, probably, this need to say it to someone who’ll just listen, who won’t tell me it wasn’t real, who won’t make me feel like I made it all up.

“She used to,” I say, feeling his fingers brushing the strands softly. “I remember her hands. Before they got shaky.”

“Talk to me about it.”

I go quiet.

What do I even say? That I missed my mom before she was even gone? That she left in pieces? That love turned into fear so fast I didn’t even realize I stopped calling it love?

“I don’t know how,” I finally whispered. “I never really tried to understand it. Talking about it makes it… real . Makes me feel like I’m back there, in that kitchen, in that house. Where things went from warm to war. Where love bled out on the floor.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I keep going, maybe because if I stop now, I won’t ever start again.

“I still braid my hair every night like she might come back and finish it. Like maybe that version of her could still exist. The one before the bottles, before the pills, before she forgot how to hold me without hurting.”

“Did you cry a lot?” he asks, quietly.

“I did,” I breathe. “Whenever she said she’d leave. My dad would take my brother and go, make sure she couldn’t hurt him. But I stayed. I always stayed. I thought if I was good enough, quiet enough, she’d love me enough to stop.” My throat tightens. “She didn’t .”

“What else, Azra?”

Gosh this is harder than I thought.

“She’d lock me up sometimes, in small places. Said I was too loud, that she needed to think. But I know she just needed to drink.”

He looks at me, that kind of look, like he’s seeing all the ghosts haunting me.

“I don’t do all of that for her,” I whisper.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “Not the one who forgot me. I do it for the one who sang lullabies, the one who taught me how to love irises. The one who kissed my cheeks when I had nightmares. I don’t remember those moments clearly, I just remember forgetting them, like they were too soft to survive the bad.

” I exhale, “I do it for her. For the version of her I needed. For my brother. My dad. For me. ”

“You’re burning your life down for the person who lit the match first?” he finally asks.

“ Yeah ,” I say. “I am.”

I looked down at my hands. They were shaking a little.

“Do you think she could’ve been better?”

“Not really. She died before she could even try, and that night, when they came, when they all died and I lived, nobody looked for me. They hid me instead, and changed my last name. Let the world believe I was gone too.”

His hand was still on mine, warm and delicate.

“I ended up with a man who preached the Bible and made me bleed when I disobeyed. His wife watched like it was God’s will. Like I was some lesson.” I let out a bitter laugh. “They said I should be grateful that they saved me. That pain was purification.”

He flinched at that, just a little.

“And I missed her still.”

“Are they the ones you told me about?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Yeah. I turned eighteen. I had the journal they gave me back from her things, I had a new goal, and I left. I didn’t run. I killed them that day, just like I told you.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m still learning...”

“Destroying your life for the person who destroyed it first isn't healing, Azra.” he finally said.

“I’m not doing all this for revenge,” I admit quietly. “I’m doing it because I don’t know how to be anything else but broken in her name.”

He finished the braid with a gentle tug, securing it with a hair tie. His fingers lingered for a moment, tracing the woven strands as if trying to understand the stories they held. Then, without a word, he moved to sit on the floor in front of me, his eyes searching mine.

“You never had the chance to be a kid.”

I couldn’t answer.

Hadn’t I?

Was I missing out on something soft and sweet? Would I be different if I had this chance?

“You never got to feel gentle hands on you. I hate it.”

I kept watching him, confused by the warmth in my chest and the way my heart was beating so fast I could’ve sworn I felt it in my soul.

“I don’t know how you feel,” he said, quiet now.

“I never felt it. I never had someone to be disappointed by. So, I can’t help you with words.

But I’ll help you with my presence instead.

I’ll cook for you, I’ll braid your hair.

Might sing if you want, but please don’t ask, I’d hate it.

And I’ll watch every movie with you, I’ll give you the softness you never had.

Because I hate how empty you look when you talk about it. ”

“So… No singing?”

He laughed, a soft, and warm sound like something I wanted to wrap myself in.

Then he leaned in and kissed the tip of my nose.

It was stupid, probably, silly and small, but it undid me more than anything else ever had.

My throat clenched, tears pressed against the backs of my eyes like they were waiting for permission.

I didn’t give it.

I was trying so hard not to fall apart in a moment that felt too safe, too warm. Like sitting in the sun after years in the cold and realizing your skin still remembers how to feel.

But I smiled, it was small, but it was a real smile.

“No singing, partner , but I’ll give you plenty of kisses instead,” he said.

And something about the way he said it made it feel like a promise, as if he wasn’t going anywhere.

I could be annoying, or quiet, or broken, or even… happy , and he’d still be sitting here.

He leaned back just a little, still on the floor in front of me. Still holding my gaze like he didn’t want to miss a single expression, like he knew I’d retreat the second he blinked.

And I wanted to. I wanted to run from it, from him , from this soft version of reality that I didn’t believe I had the right to live in.

But I didn’t move.

Because for the first time in forever, I didn’t feel like I had to earn it.

I just had to sit there, and let someone see me.

Really see me.

And that was somehow the hardest part of all.

“I mean it,” he said, voice low. “You don’t have to earn any of it.

Not the meals. Not the braids. Not the quiet nights.

” My throat tightened. “And if you wanna be a kid sometimes, I’ll let you.

You can cry, you can be mad, you can eat cereal at 2AM and wear stupid long socks, or the cat ears from Halloween. I won’t ask why.”

I blinked hard, because something inside me was splintering again, but gently this time. Like maybe he was pulling out all the rotten parts and not making me look away.

He rested his chin on my knee, eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. “You were never too much, Azra. You were just a child. And you deserved a world that didn’t try to break you for simply existing.”

And this time, I did cry. Silently . The way I’d learned to do it when I was too small to take up space. But his hands were on mine now, and they were steady, they were safe.

“I don’t need you to fix me,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said. “I just wanna be a part of the reason you don’t feel so broken anymore.”

“I just… I just don’t want to feel alone again.” Alone, worthless, never enough . “Please just for once be the one who stays.”

A hug, soft and warm and a promise sealed the conversation. “I’ll forever be here, partner .”