#23
She'd started singing to herself the day after she said goodbye.
The house wasn't usually lively before but it had never been quite so silent either. Somehow she would hear ringing in the silence and feel how especially hollow everything had become. She'd turn on music, figured that all those classics which filled a whole shelf with rows and rows of CD cases beside vintage vinyls and the very scarce but growing DVD corner, shouldn't just gather dust. She'd start from one corner of the shelf and play one CD a day until she reached the other edge, then she'd start over again. She'd skip that one song her sister used to play on repeat, though. The lyrics and the melody just hit way too close to home. It went on for years even though the apartment was plenty lively by then.
Then that beautiful, horrible day she had the baby in her arms for the first time, she couldn't stop crying. Partly because holy crap, he's in her arms so tiny and curled up, wriggling in place, look at how small he is. Partly also because there was no one else there to look at him other than her, she was alone alone alone but not quite anymore; little Julian was there even though someone else wasn't.
She cried and cried for days, weeks, months after for everything she didn't allow herself to cry for before. Some stubborn, hopeful, and perhaps naive part of her still believed that one of these days she'd get a call from her sister who'd be crying and apologizing for being absent the past year, for not being here during those times she really needed her. Part of her knew better. She didn't let herself give up though, couldn't do that yet, wouldn't admit it.
One night when she was particularly lost after Julian had thrown a fit, she stroked his forehead gently as he slept and whispered a promise to the air. She promised that she'll wait no matter how long it would take for her return. Through tears, she also threatened to kick her ass for taking so goddamn long to come back. She knows she can't hear her wherever she is but she tells her she misses her anyway.
One afternoon in late 2005, she felt someone watching her as she secured Julian in the backseat outside their apartment building. Across the street she sees someone familiar looking at her, a bottle in his hand. His shoulders sagged as he stood and she struggled connecting a name to this familiar face. Then it hit her. He was one of those survivors from that Oceanic Six, a doctor if she remembered correctly. What was he doing in Miami? His eyes turn to Julian then and he takes a long swig from his bottle. She moved over to shield the little boy from the strange man before asking if she could help him. His face crumbled, anguish washing over. He shook his head, apologised, and walked away.
She never saw him again.
(EXTRA - FLASHFORWARD)
Julian steps into the storage room, hauling boxes out, when he comes across an unlabelled one in the corner. He opens it, finds old clothes that his mother would have never worn in a million years, a stack of paperbacks, among which was a book entitled Carrie, and a framed photograph of a woman he recognises but never knew. He puts it back into the box and stacks it along with the other boxes outside.
When he arrives in his new house, he finds that box again, takes out that picture of his aunt, and sets it on the counter beside the picture of his late mother.
He hopes they managed to find each other somehow.
AN: I hope everyone has a nice day, thank you again for reading! :