Two lines; once faded, now gone.

When I held you, you were no bigger than a whisper cupped in my trembling hands. A soft, pink jellybean with little stumps for arms and legs. Yet you pressed into me like the edge of a hot knife; sharp and unforgettable. I thought back to the moment I learned of your existence- how small I'd felt then, as though the ground beneath my feet had disappeared, leaving me floating in some strange and unfamiliar sky.

I was terrified of you. Of what you meant, of what I would have to become. Then, you were merely a shadow on a screen. A secret murmured in the dark.

I thought I could bury my fear in the chaos of not knowing what to do, but you grew- quietly, insistently, like ivy curling up a crumbling wall, like a wildflower pushing through cracked stone. And I began to wonder if I could grow too.

But now you're gone. When I held you, the warmth of the blood on my hands was the only thing that felt real. It was everywhere; staining my clothes, soaking into the cracks of my palms, coating the cold bathroom tiles beneath me. It was as if the earth itself had wept red tears over my body, mourning your loss.

I didn't think I wanted you. Not then. Not in the way the world seems to expect. But as I look down at my now-empty hands, I realize they remember the weight of you. As light as hope, and as heavy as loss.