1. Daughter

MY DESK IS always littered with paperwork, and tonight it's dimly lit by an old lamp in a too cold room. There's something unsettling about the way the rain pries at the windows like an intruder, urged on by traitor's wind, the kind seen only in late autumn. I can't sleep on nights like this. Instead, I usually end up here with my head in my hands, eyes straining in a half-effort to review spreadsheets on my laptop. The work's always the same: budgets and deployment schedules, exam results and disciplinary reports, an unending ebb and flow of Balamb Garden's business as usual.

It's all aimless, really. Especially when I catch myself fucking with the formatting on a document for no reason other than to occupy time. But everything related to Garden feels so hollow now. I just can't bring myself to care when I've all but given up on command, all that talk and talk and talk of growth paths and leadership and commercially-motivated protocol.

For what it's worth, I've managed to swing a work-from-home contract, signed off by the Headmaster as a mercy kiss in lieu of dismissal. Sometimes, I think I've become the devil they know—not someone that the admins particularly like, but someone that they mostly know how to deal with. Besides, Garden's got much bigger problems than me. It's a post-war world, and they're struggling for relevance just as much as I'm struggling for reasons to continue my career.

I guess right now, it boils down to the fact that I have no clue what to do instead. There's never been a Squall Leonhart without a Garden, at least not since I was small, and there's other things to consider now—a mortgage and a car payment and savings and all the regular people things that I never thought I'd have to contend with so long as I was branded a SeeD.

Maybe I've just lost the plot. Everything's a bit of a haze, lately. And right now, my focus is shot. I really shouldn't be working; it's been hours since midnight passed, and Deling has finally fallen into something resembling quiet. I close my eyes for a moment and pick apart the white noise—bus brakes, tires through water, an ambulance whining in the distance.

This place, I think, suits me a lot better than Balamb. I've spent barely two years living here, and it already feels more like home than Garden ever did. Because here, I'm just an anonymous face among a million—it offers a kind of respite I never knew could exist, the kind that no one could understand without escaping Garden's contained world.

At first, it felt strange to exist without the glare of scrutinizing eyes, or walk amidst a crowd without hearing my name spoken in half-hushed tones. I'd spent so much of my life in this heightened, anxious state, always worried about what everyone around me was thinking. I didn't know how to react when it all fell silent.

I decide to get up—spreadsheets and documents be damned—and fish my near-empty pack of Malboro Reds from my sweatpants pocket. It's a gross habit, I know, and it'd be all too easy to blame Xu for getting me hooked in the early days of command. Back then, I was looking for anything to take the edge off, and I've never been particularly good at finding methods of keeping myself in check. It's only gotten worse the longer I've been alone.

The wind strikes quick and decisive as I step onto the patio, and I have to turn my back to light my last cigarette. I can feel the deck underneath my bare feet, cold and damp enough to make my toes curl inward. It's the one thing I'm still having a hard time getting used to, living here—freezing is not something that I ever experienced in Balamb.

I take a long drag and try to ignore the chill, to take in the view. There's something almost hypnotic about staring off into the distance. The faraway shapes all look blurry without my glasses; streetlights reflect against the wet pavement, the work of the impressionists, stretching past Fifth and expanding outward, up into the hills and reaching toward the towering Monterosas.

The smoke twists and turns and dances with itself, and it feels like a small reprieve, wiping my mind clean and carving out a place for the tiredness to finally settle in (although it's hours too late), making a home in my bones and weighing down on my chest. I finish the cigarette off and crush it into the ashtray near the door before making my way upstairs, conscious of my footfalls as I pass her room on my way to bed. She's a light sleeper, a trait she's almost certainly inherited from me; I often find myself attempting to soothe restless slumber, quelling her anxious dreams of monsters and fire.

My own room is cool and dark, save for the glowing red numbers on the clock, and I make short work of undressing before crumpling into my unmade bed. Then it's just lying there, counting up the minutes as they continue to tick away, scrolling through my phone, staring past the ceiling. When sleep finally comes just before colourless dawn threatens to rise, I dream of nothing.

—

FIVE YEARS AGO, this would have all been unimaginable. I didn't know what I wanted back then. But in my thirtieth November, I spend my time in the warmth of coffee shops, in the familiar comfort of my small Wilburn Hill townhouse, and under pencil-grey skies, surrounded by damp autumn leaves and crystalline air.

It's in these late citrine days that I often wonder when the first snow will fall and turn it all mute. The cold has turned downward from Trabia with bared teeth, its bite a Cheshire glint of ornamental frost that sharpens crisp blades of grass under waning sun.

I'm sat on a bench, surrounded by the sounds of playground games and mothers' gossip. It's all fascinating to me, maybe even a little foreign: the talk of husbands and exes, of TV shows and celebrities, of schools and soccer practice. It's the chorus I'll likely never understand, so seemingly trivial, and yet, I notice myself envying them—theirs is a world less complicated, a place that sits five degrees closer to normal. I feel like a satellite in orbit, living outside but still somehow anchored by their gravity.

"Daddy!"

I adjust my glasses and look up to see her running toward the merry-go-round before motioning frantically for me to come closer. Standing up from the bench, I make my way toward the tiny girl, my leather boots pushing through dead yellow leaves before coming to a stop in the sand.

"Can you spin it again? Please?" She stares into my gaze with wanting pale eyes I've come to recognize as my own.

"You know you've had three turns already, Harps."

"This is the last one! Promise!"

I know better than to believe her, but I oblige nonetheless. Grabbing hold of the paint-chipped rung, I start to turn the merry-go-round, air tunneling into my lungs as I spin her around and around, faster and faster. The sound of her laughter resonates through the playground as she hangs on tight, the sound warm and easy, like a song that never gets old.

The ride slows to a stop and she jumps off awkwardly. I can see her wobbly legs trying to make sense of her spinning head. Just as she's about to topple to the ground, I step in, quickly scooping her up and placing her onto my shoulders (I guess you could say I've gotten what others have dubbed "dad reflexes"). Her wild giggle fills up the air, and she lets her chin fall to rest on the top of my head, bobbing with my stride as I make my way back to my car, which is already covered in leaves from the vermillion elm I'd parked under.

It's probably unsurprising that I had been woefully unprepared to be a parent—sometimes, I worry that I'm still not capable of taking on such a responsibility, even now as she sits atop my shoulders, trusting me to not let her fall. But no matter how unready, Harper Julia Leonhart came into my life anyway, first as a shock of news when I was just twenty-four-years-old, and then nine months later as this wonderful, terrifying little human that was half me and half her mother, arriving on a bright October day with ten fingers and ten toes and weighing in at six pounds and eight ounces.

It's bizarre and incredible and maybe even sometimes a bit scary to watch her grow, to see through the eyes of a child—everything is new and exciting, a chance to experience the world in full, vibrant colour. And she carries herself with her mother's disposition: she embodies her curiosity and her candor, her sincerity and her affection. I suppose it's something like relief to know that she's taken on so little of me. The burden of my trauma is not hers to carry.

I set Harper back down onto the sidewalk and help her get into her carseat. Being a weekend father has always caused my stomach to wrench itself into knots, and I often wonder if Harper will ever fully understand what she means to me, how I spend my weeks waiting for Friday pick-ups and dreading the dying hours of Sundays when I have to return her to the home she does not share with me. It all just feels so disheartening, sometimes.

I finish double-checking her seatbelt to make sure she's secure before getting into the driver's side and hitting the ignition. A song fills the cab, piano in A-minor, and I can't help but feel a smile pull lightly at the corners of my mouth as she tries to hum along to the melody, musical like her mother. Then it's up the familiar route, onto East Kensington and through the cedars lining Gotland Lake Parkway, skyscrapers shying away in favour of suburbs as we get further and further away from the sprawl. The sun lingers in the rearview mirror, amber and coral burning itself out, an echo in an extinguished sky.

Galbadia Heights is not the neighbourhood Rinoa had chosen for herself. But it's safe, the schools are good, the commute to work is easy, and her neighbours are friendly and bland. It's an ideal place to raise Harper, far from the chaos and instability she'd known in Timber, or the cold, calculating halls of Balamb Garden.

Rinoa had desired anonymity, too, in the wake of all that had happened since the summer when we first fell in love. Where some had used their power to corrupt or kill or change the course of history, Rinoa decided to choose a different path for herself, for Harper, and even still to some degree, for me too. I've come to memorize the look of the Odine jewellery she never takes off, the rings on her fingers that keep her secret locked away and ensure the truth will only ever be known only by our closest friends and family and a few select confidantes.

Rinoa's life as a result has been mostly spent in ordinary skin; a kid and a dog and a house that's notably plain. I think she prefers it that way. Her narrow building stands faceless in a row of dozens built in its image, distinguished only by the 736 that hangs in black serif near the entryway.

I park the car and let Harper out before grabbing her pink backpack from the trunk. It takes two deep breaths before I can follow her up the stone walk to the front door. Never does this routine seem to get any easier, and I find myself wishing for something to help calm my nerves. For Harper's sake, I let my face betray nothing of what I feel as she rings the doorbell. And then it's barking, followed by footsteps drawing nearer from inside before coming to a stop on the landing.

Angelo's nose is the first thing I see as she opens the door, excited for Harper's return, her stub of a tail wagging as if she were still just a puppy, and not the nearly thirteen-year-old dog she's aged into. I reach down to give her a couple small scratches behind the ear.

"Hi Mommy!" Harper walks up and wraps her small arms around Rinoa's waist.

"Hey, babe! I missed you!" Rinoa returns the hug before looking back to me. "Hi, Squall."

I look at my former lover and offer her a wan smile and a nod. Although she's changed with age—a couple faint lines across her forehead, a bit of extra weight that never came back off after pregnancy—I find myself perpetually entranced by her beauty: soft, honest features, the artistry of her form, Renoir smile, gaze of Manet.

"How was she?" she asks, absently combing her hand through Harper's unruly raven hair.

"Good, as usual." My reply is automatic as I hand her the backpack. "She had a late lunch, but she just burned a lot off at the park."

"Great, 'cause I've got dinner on the stove already."

I can't begin to explain how much I hate that this is our reality, now; diminished conversations about nothing, small talk reaching across a divide, the long borders and the deep trenches. It's the promise of flower fields and the certainty of scattered landmines. It had been so easy to invite her into my mind before, the feeling of being unified as sorceress and knight. But the walls are up now, and I dare not to climb for fear of cutting myself on the razor wire.

I look to Harper and kneel down on the hardwood floor. She comes running back toward me, letting me wrap her up in my waiting arms. Small hands squeeze against the worn-in denim of my jacket, and I can't help but draw her in closer, trying to hang on to her for just one moment longer. Never before had I been one for such blatant and open affection, but in the years since she was born, I've been catching myself breaking all my own rules.

"Love you, Daddy," she whispers into my ear.

I kiss her cheek and whisper back, "Love you, too."

—

SUNDAY NIGHTS ARE always hard. In the quiet spaces of time where I'm left alone, there's only room to think. I turn on the TV to drown out the noise in my head, the sound of the 18:00 newscast occupying the vacancy like a drone. Car crash on Highway 7, traffic backed past Willingdon. More diplomatic talks between Galbadia and Timber's provisional government. Early snow in Dollet.

Even just a couple years ago, I might've found a way to be interested, but now I just sit on the couch and debate whether I should go out for a cigarette or roll myself a joint. I'm pretty sure I still have a quarter baggie tucked up in the cabinet where I keep the liquor, a bloom of expensive indica I'd gotten maybe a week ago from a dispensary downtown. I get up, grab a bud, and grind it down to something usable. It's skunky and sweet, the smell of easy escape.

The problem is that without Rinoa or Harper, I have no anchor, no reason to tell myself no. Getting stoned helps. The ceiling lifts up and I can just settle in, tune out. It's kinda like getting permission to be okay with going adrift, my brain embracing that numb, fuzzy static, the acceptance of nothing.

I'm just about through with rolling when, almost as if on cue, my phone starts to vibrate against the wooden coffee table, offering up a welcome interruption. I pick it up, read the name flashing on the screen, and answer.

"Hey."

"Hi." Quistis' voice sounds tired. "You hungry?"

I smirk. "Right to the point, aren't we?"

"Yeah, yeah," she replies. I can tell she's unimpressed. "Answer the question."

"I could eat." It's half-true. I'm not particularly in the mood for anything, but the prospect of someone's company is enticing enough that I can force it. "Want me to order something in?"

"I've been craving Estharii. Get my usual, and I'll be there in fifteen."

I wonder if Quistis knows how much her move to Deling has come as a salve, so much so that I should probably write a thank you email to the hiring manager at Galbadia Garden for giving her the head instructor position. Her familiar friendship has manifested as a routine appearance in my life in these past few months, a break from the slow, lonely hours that seem to otherwise take up too much space. It's gotten to the point where I've memorized her "usual" order and the right Estharii take-out place to get it from, just out of sheer repetition.

The doorbell rings—fifteen, exactly—and I get up to invite her in, letting out a small snort as my gaze comes to rest on the bottle of shiraz she's carrying with her. And she doesn't bother waiting around for my welcome as she takes her shoes off and makes her way into the kitchen, comfortable enough to know where I keep the wine glasses.

"Good day?" I ask. I'm well aware that I'm being an asshole.

"Yes, Squall," she responds blankly, pouring a too-full glass and handing it over to me. "Great day."

She moves to the couch and I follow, sitting down next to her on the grey linen sectional. A sip and a sideways glance allow me a moment to note her blonde hair coming loose from her bun, those tired blue eyes and dark circles, her pressed Alexander McQueen pantsuit. She smells like Coco Mademoiselle, jasmine and vanilla feigning something energetic to mask her exhaustion.

"Sometimes, Squall," she pauses to put her glass down on the table, "I swear I should just leave Garden altogether and go teach at a university, or a high school, or something, like a normal person."

I grin. I know the feeling all too well. "What now?"

"I got called in today because a group of kids decided to try out some paramagic that was way out of their league—something they, of course, learned about in my class." She shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. "They made a huge mess in the cafeteria and blew apart half the seating area. And apparently that's my fault, because I shouldn't have taught them what was clearly laid out in the curriculum."

I laugh and she shoots me a glare. "Sorry."

Despite my outward appearance, I really am sympathetic. The only reason—and that's to say, if I had a gun to my head and had to make up a reason—that I'm even at Garden still is because I need to create some stability for Harper. I need this job to help pay for daycare and save for her college and give her all the things that I did not have growing up.

Another ring of the doorbell, and I get up to retrieve our food, paper cartons of noodles and broccoli and beef, mixed in with dense, fragrant spices. We eat at the coffee table and I listen as she talks about her weekend. How she is struggling to find her way with the students at Galbadia Garden. The man who lost his temper with a barista at her favourite coffee place. A catchy song she heard on the radio. Last night's blind date.

"He was...unimpressive," she decides, taking a bite of broccoli before continuing. "He's a finance manager at a car dealership. He put back three pints like nothing before he started telling me about his ex-girlfriend, and how she left him for a coworker. Apparently she's a cheating bitch and he definitely didn't do anything wrong. Can you believe that?"

I just shake my head. "You need to stop using those dating apps. Have you even met one good guy on there yet?"

"Well I'm not getting any younger here, if you haven't noticed." She points to the grey hairs that are starting to blend into her hairline. "I'm exploring all my options."

I trade my food for the wine, finishing off my glass in one quick throw. "All the shitty options, maybe," I quip.

"Oh, screw off."

It's a shame that I had never placed much value on this kind of banter as a teenager, but as the years continue to wind up, Quistis has easily become my closest friend, someone I can genuinely say I love and care for. And I've been finding comfort in smaller moments spent with her—dinner in a box and cheap wine, conversations about work and life and mutual loneliness.

After dinner, I put on a sitcom we had started the week before, and we sit together, watching mindlessly. Something about people who work together in an office. I don't really care to get too invested; it's mostly filler noise. I suspect she feels the same way, but I don't think either of us is about to start any sort of protest; binging shows together has become just another excuse to not be alone.

My eyes wander back to my freshly rolled joint, still begging for my attention. I crack the living room window and light it, and almost immediately, it feels like a woolen blanket being pulled over my thoughts, warm and almost a little bit prickly at first. I sink back into the cushions, tracing rising smoke and focusing on nothing in particular.

Quistis gets up to retrieve the shiraz and refills our glasses. The wine is already weaving into the high with a dry buzz. It's almost like a positive affirmation that you'd read in some bullshit self-help book. It says, "you will be okay"; it turns the volume down on my more neurotic thoughts. I offer her a pull, already knowing what her answer will be—a shake of her head, her hand up. Before, she would attempt to argue with me, telling me that I shouldn't do this or that, but I would just sit back and ignore her familiar refrain, and she ultimately relented.

Besides, I can see that she's getting a bit flushed, herself, wine warming her tired features. Sometimes I worry about her, how tired she always seems. The way she never appears to be fully happy. Quistis Trepe has never been in a long-term relationship. She has invested the majority of her youth and the entirety of her adult life into Garden instead, pouring everything into her career and finding herself alone at thirty with few friends to help fill up the time.

Our show pivots to a scene that seems almost too sincere, too serious to be placed in a comedy—an admission of love and a forbidden kiss, pent up romance in the wrong place at the wrong time. And I can't stop myself from thinking about Rinoa then, about what it had felt like when she had loved me. That first kiss out on the balcony, under shooting stars lit by full moon. It's becoming hard for me to even imagine back to that time; the memory feels like the stuff of TV shows.

Quistis sighs, taking another sip of wine, "This would never happen in real life."

"Definitely not," comes my response.

"Or maybe we're just bitter."

I laugh again. It's a good thing I'm stoned, or else I might've cried instead. But if we're both going to be lonely, at least we can be lonely together. I wrap my arm around her then and pull her closer, trying to reassure her with a small hug. The feeling of another human being comes as comfort, at least to me, even if it's only a platonic gesture.

We sit like that for a moment. Quistis lets out another sigh as the make-believe love scene carries on. I wonder if one day, she'll find someone else to spend her time with, or if she'll become just one more person in my life who's relegated me to background noise, no more significant than a blip in the static. I know I should be used to it by now, but still I'm scared, maybe as scared as I ever was. I sink back into the cushions just a little too much, quietly hoping the couch will devour me whole.