These memories refuse to let her fade. My mind is stubbornly anchored to her presence, and my heart clings to her as though it might drift away if it ever let go.
I often find myself lost in daydreams of the life we could have shared. I see her walking toward me in white, her every step echoing through eternity. I imagine introducing her to my friends, their laughter wrapping around us like sunlight. I picture our vows, trembling between breaths — till death do us part, though I never believed it would be hers. Michael stands beside me as my best man, Hayat radiant in a gown that catches the light like liquid gold. Abbu walks her down the aisle, his hand shaking with both pride and sorrow. My father stands across from me, his eyes soft, finally at peace.
We'd wake every morning in each other's arms, her hair a quiet storm across my chest. I'd burn breakfast and she'd laugh anyway, that laugh that made the world seem a little less cruel. We'd pray together, build a life that wasn't perfect but ours. And every day, I'd fall deeper, without fear, without end.
If only I could break free from this loneliness that feels like breath trapped inside glass.I'd rewrite destiny itself, defy the divine, even offer up my life to bring her back. If I'd known she was leaving, I would've given her my heartbeat in exchange for one more day.
Nothing compares to the agony of knowing she's truly gone.
And yet, tonight, she lives again — on canvas.
The curtain rose.
And there she was.
Ayah Ferdous.
Her chestnut hair shimmered like molten sunlight, her eyes ablaze with the light of distant stars. Her smile — that smile — softer than forgiveness, sharper than longing. She held an iris, slender fingers brushing against the petals as if feeling the world for the first time. Around her stretched a sea of color, irises swaying in a painted wind. Her dress, a masterpiece of pearl and shadow, shimmered as if she had stepped out of heaven only to meet me halfway.
For a moment, she was alive again.
And I forgot to breathe.
No star could rival her brilliance. I still clutch her memory like a relic, trembling and sacred. Around others, I can pretend. I can smile, perform, even charm. But with her — I was real. With her, laughter wasn't sound; it was surrender.
Couldn't she have stayed just a little longer?
I fall in love with her each time I remember. Her absence healed nothing — the scars only deepened, etched across time itself. Still, she smiles in memory, unbothered by the ruin she left behind.
As the curtain lifted, the hall erupted in light and applause. My father caught my gaze from the back, lips curving to form the words "Well done." Hayat's tears glimmered; Abbu's pride filled the air; Michael stood like a monument — unshaken, unreadable, proud.
"Who was Ayah Ferdous?" they'll ask."Why did Alex Ardel take his own life?"
Questions, questions, questions — all chasing the echoes of ghosts.
But love cannot be dissected. Grief cannot be explained.
Why couldn't she have stayed a little longer?
I never got to say goodbye. Losing Ayah didn't just break me — it hollowed me out. Alex's death cracked my mind; hers erased my soul. You don't survive that. You just… continue breathing.
The reporter's voice sliced through my haze.
"Mr. Ardel," he repeated, irritation sharpened by curiosity. "Who is the woman in your painting?"
"Ayah Ferdous," I said, the name falling from my tongue like a prayer.
"And where is this place?"
I met his eyes briefly, then turned back to her painted smile. "Nowhere," I said. "A place we dreamed of. Before we could ever go, she was already gone."
The air thickened. Even the cameras seemed to pause.
Michael's hand brushed my shoulder — his silent way of saying, breathe.
Another reporter stood. "Mr. Ardel, why were you absent for seven years while your father continued his work?"
"I needed time," I said simply.
"Seven years?"
I smiled faintly. "Grief doesn't keep time."
"Was it because of Alex?"
Before I could speak, Michael stepped forward, calm and controlled. "Two questions per reporter. That's enough."
The murmurs faded. Flashbulbs cooled. The world grew quiet again.
When it was over, I retreated to the penthouse — my sanctuary in the sky. The city shimmered below, an ocean of light and loneliness. I poured myself a drink, the amber catching the chandelier's dim glow, and stood before the floor-to-ceiling window.
Despite everything — the success, the noise, the applause — I felt empty. Like the world had given me everything except her.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
Dad.
I hesitated, then answered. "Dad."
A low hum on the other end — the familiar sound of him exhaling, the faint shuffle of papers, city noise behind his voice.
"I saw you tonight," he said, his tone warm, proud. "You were extraordinary."
"You told me that already," I murmured.
"Once wasn't enough." His voice softened. "You made her immortal, Aubrey. You gave her back to the world."
"She gave me back to myself," I whispered.
Silence, then a breath that almost sounded like a sigh. "She fixed us," he said.
"She did," I replied. "Without even trying."
"I stood there tonight," he continued, "watching you — my son, not my successor — and for the first time, I thought: maybe Alex didn't leave me nothing. Maybe he left me you."
My throat tightened. "You've always had me, Dad."
He chuckled softly. "You didn't always believe that."
"You didn't always show it."
Another quiet pause. Then, gently: "I didn't know how."
I smiled, the ache gentle now. "She taught us both."
"She did," he murmured. "She'd be proud of you, Aubrey. She'd tell you to stop looking backward. To start living again."
"I'm trying."
"I know," he said. "And I'm proud of you for that too."
I exhaled, the tension leaving me all at once. "Thank you."
"Aubrey," he added, his tone soft but resolute, "you're more like her than you think."
I smiled faintly. "Then I'll take that as the highest compliment."
He laughed, quiet and wistful. Then, after a moment, his voice gentled further — deliberate, measured."There's one more thing," he said. "Expect a guest tomorrow."
I frowned, half-smiling. "A guest?"
"Yes," he said, amusement threaded beneath his calm. "Someone you might want to meet. Don't refuse."
"You're not giving me much of a choice, are you?"
"No," he replied, warmth in his tone. "And you'll thank me later."
I laughed softly, shaking my head. "You haven't changed."
"I hope not entirely," he said. "Goodnight, son."
"Goodnight, Dad."
The line went still.
I lingered there by the window, the city glowing beneath me, my reflection fading into the skyline. I turned back toward the painting — her painted smile still luminous, still alive.
"I could have anything," I whispered, "but all I want is you."
A cold breeze slipped through the half-open balcony doors, carrying the faint scent of irises that shouldn't exist.
"Snowflake," I murmured, voice trembling, "please come back."
For a fleeting heartbeat — one that felt stolen from eternity — I swear I felt her there, breathing softly in the silence.