Snowflake
Despite my best efforts to stay afloat, I found myself drowning in an ocean of thoughts. It's something I both detest and love—this pulls into the depths of my mind. I've tried everything to make the pain go away, but now it's woven itself into every fibre of my being. I need to accept that the story of you and me is unfinished, yet each dawn, I continue to evade the truth. This marked the beginning of a new chapter in a story that had ended seven years ago. A chapter I never wished to revisit, but it seemed inevitable.
When I hated myself the most, she was the one who loved me.
"Ayah, how can you love me when I don't even love myself?" I asked her once.
She smirked, her eyes glowing with mischief. "So you can keep loving me," she replied. My last memory of that moment is our shared laughter echoing through the room, warm and light, filling the space with a fleeting sense of peace.
Some miracles change your life, sent by God as blessings. But they're ephemeral. Those favoured by the Lord are called back far too soon, so they may bask in the eternal beauty of heaven.
"Ayah," I whispered her name, "she was the sweet thirst I could never quench." I had never seen anything as beautiful as she was. Amid my chaos, she was the breath of serenity. Her voice, like honey, was what my ears yearned for. Her scent was what I craved, the perfume that lingered long after she left. She was my moonlight in the dark and my daylight in the gloom. She nourished my soul like rain quenches parched earth. Ayah was nothing short of an angel—full of grace, unwavering in her beliefs, radiating love wherever she went.
She was my addiction, my patience, my wisdom, and my trust. She was the hope that lit the darkness, a beacon in an otherwise starless sky. To put it simply, Ayah Ferdous was my true love, the one who held my heart even now
It all began seven years ago in my office, the scene a stark contrast to the frosty calm outside. My father, Michael, and I were engaged in a heated argument, our voices reverberating off the bare walls of the sterile room. The tension between us was palpable, a storm of conflicting wills with one person desperately trying to calm the tempest. The argument had ignited just before an important violin competition, a stepping stone that promised to be a gateway to a prestigious agency—a future that could propel me to greatness. But I had no intention of participating.
"I'm happy with where I am. I don't want to compete," I tried to reason with him, my voice edged with frustration.
My father's response was thunderous, his authority unyielding. "It's not just about you, Aubrey! Think about the staff, about Michael, and the hard work they've all invested. They want to see you succeed."
"And why should I care what they want?" I retorted, my patience fraying.
I had already abandoned my passion for painting and was trudging down a path that felt alien to me. I resented the expectations, especially since my father had never bothered to ask what I wanted. I wished he had once said, *"Son, what do you want to be?"* or even, *"Follow your instincts, even if they lead you into uncertainty. I'll be here for you, no matter what."*
But he hadn't.
The mention of my deceased brother Alex cut through the argument like a knife. "Alex would be disappointed in you," my father said, his words casual, almost indifferent.
That was the breaking point. My anger erupted with a cold intensity. Michael's face turned ashen, clearly shocked by the callousness. It was astonishing that my father, who had shown no grief at Alex's funeral or questioned his tragic end, would now invoke his memory.
"You have no right to bring up Alex!" I spat, my voice dripping with venom. "He's not your son anymore. Don't you dare utter his name with that disgusting mouth of yours."
Without another word, I threw on my coat and stormed out of the office. The city greeted me with its snow-covered streets and frigid air. I inhaled deeply, hoping the cold would soothe my frayed nerves. My mind was a whirlwind of questions: Was this life I was leading worth it? What was I fighting for? Why did I feel so alone despite being surrounded by people?
"I wish it was me who had died, Alex," I murmured under my breath, the weight of those words pressing heavily on my chest.
As I wandered aimlessly through the city, I began to notice the simple joys around me. The florist, meticulously arranging vibrant blooms with a smile despite his modest earnings. Children gleefully savoring a single piece of candy. Friends, immersed in carefree conversation. The warm, inviting aroma of a bakery, with a line of eager patrons awaiting their turn. Everything seemed so uncomplicated, filled with an intrinsic joy.
And then I saw her. Seated alone on a bench in the middle of the snow-blanketed field was a girl. Her orange beanie stood out against the white, and her brown hair peeked out, framing her face. She was intently focused on her sketchbook, her hazel eyes tracking the pencil's movement with rapt concentration. Her sharp, elegant nose and glasses perched precariously on her face gave her an air of regal determination.
Drawn by curiosity, I approached her. As I neared, I saw her drawing—a depiction that I couldn't quite place.
"What are you drawing?" I asked, unable to suppress my curiosity. She jumped slightly, clutching her chest in surprise. Instantly, I regretted startling her.
"Oh Lord, don't sneak up on people like that!" she gasped, catching her breath. After a moment, she looked up at me, her expression shifting to a mix of curiosity and vulnerability. "You want to know?"
I nodded, intrigued.
Her ears, reddened by the cold, revealed her nervousness. "Well, it's not that good, but it's supposed to be a snowflake," she said, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm. Her explanation was so earnest that I struggled to find any resemblance to an actual snowflake in her drawing.
"Have you ever seen a snowflake before?" I asked, incredulous.
"No," she replied, a hint of longing in her voice. I was astounded. How had she lived in New York and never seen a snowflake?
Offering to help, I gestured to her sketchbook. "Let me show you what a snowflake looks like." I took a pencil and began sketching, my hands moving with practiced ease.
She watched me intently, her gaze a blend of skepticism and wonder. When I handed her back the sketchbook, her eyes widened, and her face lit up with a delight that was almost childlike.
"It's beautiful!" she exclaimed, her voice imbued with a newfound excitement. "I've never seen anyone draw a snowflake so perfectly."
She glanced at her watch, and panic flashed across her face. "Oh no! My break's over. I need to get back to work." Hastily, she packed up her things but not before giving me a smile that radiated warmth, a stark contrast to the winter chill.
"You should be a painter," she said, her eyes sparkling with sincerity. "Those hands of yours are gifted."
I stood there, watching her rush back into the café, completely absorbed in the moment. Just as she disappeared inside, I felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning, I saw Michael, his expression etched with concern.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice tinged with worry.
In that moment, amidst the bustle of the city and the lingering warmth of the girl's smile, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time—hope.