Prodigy.

A word that has followed me wherever I've been. It's gotten to the point where I have to admit that I've grown indifferent to it. After winning the Junior Olympic gold medal for fencing and the Youth International Kendo Championship—all at the tender age of 15—I've become utterly numb to the media frenzy and attention. The flashing lights of cameras, the swarm of journalists and reporters, the constant interviews... None of it excites me anymore. Not that I ever craved the spotlight or sought to dominate the press. No.

All I ever wanted was for Mom and Dad to be proud of me.

And they were.

If someone were to offer me the chance to give up all the trophies, medals, and certificates I've accumulated over the past 18 years just for another day with them, I would gladly do so without a moment's hesitation. But why am I even thinking about this right now?

Puff.

I take a deep drag from the Dunhill cigarette in my hand, my other hand absentmindedly slicking back my light blonde hair—Mom's hair—while my dark brown eyes—Dad's eyes—trace the outlines of the dark, empty family park, dimly lit by scattered streetlights.

"Hah."

I'm so tired of it all.

*****

Two years ago, after my final match at the Olympics—where I crushed the Japanese finalist—I ran straight to my parents. Victory still buzzed through me, the adrenaline gushing through my veins like a dam set loose. I threw myself into their arms, pulling them into a wide, overzealous hug.

"MOM! DAD! I DID IT! I WON! ARE YOU PROUD?"

They hugged me back. Mom ruffled my hair, and Dad's hands callused and rough—patted my back, firm and steady. I remember their gazes—one blue, the other brown. Warm. Proud. Like I was the center of their universe.

"You really did it, huh, Juli, my boy," Dad said, his voice filled with quiet admiration.

"MAMA'S SO PROUD OF YOU, JULI! MY LITTLE SUN!"

I laughed. Giggled even. Fifteen and still clinging to them like a child. But honestly, who else did I have? 

My peers? We barely spoke. We didn't share interests.

Friends? They came and went, 

Rivals? I was peerless. A once-in-a-lifetime prodigy with sword-like weapons.

My parents were the only things that were constant. They were the only ones I had, the only ones who mattered.

Then, there, right in the middle of the moment, the phone rang.

RING. RING. RING.

An unfamiliar chorus utterly different from the usual light-hearted melody that permeated my ears when my mother's phone rang. 

An ominous sign. I should've realized it then and there.

Mom exchanged a glance with Dad. He glanced back. At the time, it meant nothing to me—a fleeting, silent exchange. But now, when I close my eyes at night, I see it clearly. The nightmares love showing me that day ever so often. It whispers to me. Its voice keeps on telling me that that glance wasn't just a glance. It was a conversation—a goodbye.

*******

"We're getting a divorce," Dad said coldly.

His voice didn't waver. His face didn't soften. The dimples that used to appear when he smiled were gone, replaced by a jaw set like stone. The man who had hugged me after all my matches, the man whose laughter once filled our house, the man whose warm face bore multiple crevices as a result of his smiling too much was gone. gone. Just like that. 

Sigh

Mom sighed. It wasn't the kind of sigh people let out when they're annoyed. It was the sigh of someone who'd carried too much for too long. She looked older at that moment—she didn't look thirty-five at that moment, her navy-blue eyes dull, her ivory skin pale under the fluorescent lights of the gloomy room.

"Juli, my dear," she said with a sad smile, "Your father and I have decided it's better for us to part ways, honey."

That smile. I see it in every reflection now, haunting me like a shadow that never goes away. I stopped smiling because of that. My smile looks far too much like Mom's.

******

I never got the full story. Every question I asked was brushed off, like the details didn't matter like I wouldn't understand. They agreed I would live with Dad. That was "best for me." Mom said it was because he had more money, more savings, and a "better future" to offer. I can't blame her, she loves me after all.

So, Mom left. She flew to the other side of the world and started her new life, while I stayed here with Dad.  The two lovebirds who married at nineteen had a son at twenty, both walked away so… so effortlessly. 

The two people who once looked at each other like the world revolved around them—the ones who would cuddle one another at every excuse—the ones who would sneakily peck one another in the kitchen while washing the dishes.

At one glance they were all that mattered and at the next glance, they were strangers. 

Whatever they had carved out in their youths crumbled down and vanished into thin air.

How feeble it is?

If that's what love is—then maybe 

 I don't ever want to fall in love.

*****

I get up from my usual spot on the bench and start walking along the pavement of the park. The cool breeze of autumn dominates the air, whisking away my chin-length hair.

BUZZ

I feel a vibration in my pocket. It's a notification from YouTube. The text flickering on my cracked phone screen reads:

Child Stars THEN and NOW.

The thumbnail shows a split image. On one side, there's a cheerful-looking flower boy with bright blonde hair and warm brown eyes, beaming widely as he holds a medal against his chest and a trophy in his hands. The other side, divided by a harsh line, shows a tall young man in a dull grey hoodie and black Adidas trousers. His blonde hair looks dull and oily, his face gaunt and pale in a sickly way. Uneven stubble clings messily to his jawline, and his eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. A pack of cigarettes peeks out from the pocket of his trousers.

"Hah, I remember when that f*cker took that photo," I mutter, tapping the screen and scrolling down to read the comments.

**********

-Ewww! Julius Markopoulos looks so ugly now.

-Right, yeah."

-I remember having a crush on Julius as a kid. He's ruined himself now. Thank God my fantasies of marrying him never came true.

-Damn, the Julius one should be used for anti-drug campaigns.

-LOL.

-LMFAO TRUEEEE.

**********

"Hah."

I sigh, closing my phone and slipping it back into my pocket. The same old comments as always. It's not that big of a deal anymore.

I make my way out of the park.

BUZZ

Another notification? I unlock my phone and glance at the cracked screen—a message from the messenger app.

***********

Dad:

Bring liquor.

*************

Still coping after three years, old man? 

My father is far from the man he used to be when Mom was around. I barely see him anymore unless I'm awake at two in the morning. That's when I'll hear the main door creak open and see a jagged, disheveled figure stumble inside, reeking of alcohol, the stench permeating every nook and cranny of the apartment. The man wakes up at two in the afternoon, long after I've left for private tutoring in the mornings. By the time I get back, he's already gone. To God knows where. Not to work surely, there's no way any company would hire him in the state he's in.

I walk through the posh streets of Dubai—the place we moved to after Mom left. Apparently, Dad didn't like paying the British government taxes and decided to move here to the UAE where he could splurge the money he had accumulated with Mom over the course of his life.

I glance at the skyline. Tall spires pierce the heavens, adorned with bright lights that paint the night sky in neon hues.

I eventually find myself standing outside a tall apartment building that has a blocky structure and seems to give an authoritative corporate vibe. 

The lobby is smooth, lush, and pristine. It is entirely encompassed in white hues. Ilyas, the guardsman, is asleep at his post as usual. I pay him no mind; the poor guy already has it rough dealing with the tenants.

I step into the elevator, pressing the button for the seventh floor. The soft lift music fills the space, and I close my eyes, letting the tune distract me. If only for a moment. The doors open with a ring, and I walk towards apartment 721, the number engraved in gold letters.

Taking the silver keys out of my pocket with a clank, I unlock the wooden-handled door with a soft click.

An unfamiliar scene graces my woody gaze.

A large man with bloodshot eyes looms in the corridor. His glare is sharp, menacing, and cold.

"Alcohol."

I didn't bring any, you twat. You're going to kill yourself at the rate you drink.

"They ran out of it," I lie.

"Lies."

Before I can react, the towering figure with black hair streaked with silver and a thick black beard steps forward. There's a flash of white as his fist collides with my jaw, a sharp pain rips through my bone. His hand grips the collar of my shirt, and I feel a violent tug as I'm flung across to the other side of the corridor.

"...ike her."

He grumbles something inaudible as stomps out the door, muttering a few more curses under his breath, no doubt heading out to find his new beloved. alcohol.

Spit.

I spit blood onto the white tile floor and glance around at the living room. 

It's in shambles. To put it kindly. Empty bottles litter every surface. The sofas are misarranged. Cushions and decorations are strewn everywhere. The flower vase I'd bought from an old woman at a market lies shattered on the floor.

 I swear that looks like puke on the sofa.

"Great. The old man's had another crash out."

I struggle as I push myself to my feet and drag myself into the living room, preparing to clean up the mess my father left behind.