Iris

09 | doughnuts

     A young girl — probably not older than six — jumped off the swing and ran rapidly towards a woman who looked a lot like her; her mother. A fit of adorable giggles escaped the little girl's lips as the woman lifted her up and placed a seemingly gentle kiss onto her forehead.

My gaze remained fixed on the scene unfolding right before my eyes, the faint smile playing across my lips masking the pang of sadness that had stung my heart. I wasn't jealous of the girl — of what she had; if anything, I felt happy that she got to experience something I had never experienced.

But the pang of sadness was perhaps a result of the realisation that had struck my mind. I had never gotten to know how would it feel like to have a mother; to get embraced within her warmth or to even hear her soothing voice. I had never gotten to know how would having a father feel like, either.

"Our parents loved you. They've never attempted to hide that you were their favourite."

I painfully craned my neck — the simple action seeming to consume more energy than intended — and allowed my gaze to land upon Roman. His hazel eyes were fixed upon the same girl I was watching, an unfamiliar wave of emotions swimming freely within them.

For a moment, it seemed as though I could see through the cold demeanor his face had held over the past week — as though I could see how much he had missed our parents, how exhausting everything had been to him. But the crack I managed to see through got mended as soon as his eyes met mine.

"When they were alive, I mean," he spoke again, his voice stern and void.

It did hurt knowing that our parents had died — it hurt the same way it did when I heard that for the first time, years ago. A small amount of hope had been growing within my chest; that hope had slowly cradled my heart. So gently that I thought it'd turn into a reality. And so lovingly that I had allowed myself to expect meeting my parents the way I had met my brothers.

And even though my mind had screamed at me, ordering me not to expect such a thing to happen; not to trust the hope that had cradled my heart, I decided to ignore it. Because a part of me was still craving to know what would it feel like to live with caring parents.

Roman's words might have painfully snatched that hope away from my heart. They might have left a dull voidness in my heart, but they had still succeeded in leaving some warmth to replace that voidness. Knowing that my parents had loved me was enough for a smile to creep back onto my lips.

"Thank you," I told Roman. His cold gaze locked with mine, his eyebrows furrowing in a seemingly questioning manner. I continued talking. "For telling me something about our parents." For taking me in was what I stopped myself from saying.

Roman's gaze held mine for a few seconds before it trailed over my face, studying it with so much concentration and curiosity. It seemed as though he were searching for something — as though he had understood that there was more into my words. Because the next thing I knew was that he had a faint — almost-invisible — smile playing across his lips.