if you think of giving up: told in a short story.
"park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me" but it's not about your loved ones in your dr. it's not about shifting. it's not even about an alternate version of life. it's about you. yes, you. the one here and now. the one with the awareness.
it's about the dreams you've left behind, the quiet betrayals, the tiny funerals you didn't even realize you were attending. you tell yourself you don’t need them. you tell yourself you've grown up. that was then, and now it's different. you think about the way you once held them so close, entertaining them all day till you succumb to sleep, and you pretend the memory doesn't make something inside you coil with longing—but then, just as you're lost in those thoughts, you're pulled back into reality. where you're standing at a fair, and a child comes up to you and tugs at your sleeve.
"do you know where my mom is?"
you turn, and there's a little kid, red-eyed, breath hitching in their chest. their face is messy with tears, and their tiny hands are trembling. you kneel, instinctively, lowering to their level, and you soften your voice, in an attempt to make them feel safe.
"you're okay, i'll help you, we'll find her, i promise."
but they only cry harder. their words come out in a way that's impossible to untangle. they're just a kid after all, panic swallows them whole and they can't explain what's going on, where they lost her, what exactly happened that made them lose her, and to top it all off they don't even have the words for it, they only know what it feels like, the way fear spreads itself in their chest, the way the world suddenly seems too big and too loud and too much.
and you—you have no idea what to do. you don't know how to fix this. you don't know the kid, at least, not really. the situation seems bigger than either of you, but you do know that you won't leave them here, that you will take their hand and hold it tight, that you will put them on your shoulders and search through every inch of this place until you find their mom.
except—they stop crying. and they lift their head to look at you, really look at you, with something in their expression, something you can't quite understand, like they know something, and that makes your stomach drop before they even open their mouth.
"you left me here."
the words don't make sense. they confuse you and ring in your head like a thousand church bells, and then the sound disappears. everything else is still moving, the ferris wheel is still spinning, the rainbow lights are still flashing, the music is still playing—but you don't hear any of it anymore.
"what?" you whisper, but you already know the answer.
they squeeze your hand tighter, like they're afraid once they repeat themselves you'll let go and leave again. their lips are shaking, and their voice is much more quieter now, but it cuts through you like a sharp and sudden scream.
"you left me here."
and suddenly, you remember. you remember the way you used to dream. the way you swore you'd never let go of the things that made your heart feel so big, the way you promised yourself you wouldn't become this—this version of you that makes these sensible choices, that trades joy for survival and tells themselves it's just what 'growing up' means, and it's just 'the way life is.'
the kid is still looking at you, waiting for you to say something, do something, anything. and in that moment, you realize—it's not just any kid standing in front of you. it's you. the part of you that you've buried, the part that's still waiting for answers, for someone to care enough. that kid is the version of you you left behind, the one you've been avoiding all this time.
go help them. don't look at me or anyone else. go help them. they asked you. not me, not anybody around. they saw you in this suffocating crowd and felt the safest with you, so they approached you, they wouldn't choose anyone else in this world.
either you take them by the hand, or they're going to keep following you around, pulling at your sleeve, each time harder than the last, sobbing so loudly it bangs in your eardrums, waking you up in the middle of the night with questions you're too tired to answer.
and i want you to think of your choice to ignore them as saying "i promise we'll find her" and then leading them into the fair, distracting them by pointing out other kids playing and shouting "hey! this looks fun!", buying them cotton candy, hoping it'll make them forget about the ache in their chest.
and maybe, for a while, it works. maybe they smile, maybe they even laugh, maybe you convince yourself that they've forgotten what they were crying about.
but the knot is still in their throat. the tears haven't dried. the softness of their mother's hands still lingers on their cheeks. and it won't ever leave.
they'll pretend to forget, but you won't. they'll let go of your hand, but you'll still feel the tightness of their grip, years later, in your happiest moments, in every mirror, in dreams where you catch a glimpse of them just before you wake up to face reality.
and you'll always come back to them. so choose, now, to do something about it, and that choice better be to help them find their mom. (home.)
