This is a true story. It was related to me by my grandmother, my Omi, before her dementia set in. I honestly, truly, believe this could be made into a film.

--------------------------------------

On October 21st, 1952, Omi's 20th birthday, it was time for her to leave her family and country. She was to leave the Netherlands and reunite with her fiancee in Canada. He had gone on ahead 2 years prior. He was a hardworking man, and had served in Indonesia in the Dutch Navy before going to Canada. During his time in service, he wrote Omi 360 letters.

Omi could not pack very many belongings. She had to decide what to do with the letters, and did not want her younger sisters to read them - so, she burned them.

Omi's mother, sister, and aunt said goodbye to her at the train station. Her dad and father-in-law-to-be went with her on the train to Rotterdam. Once there, they got permission to come aboard for a visit, since Omi's father had been a customs officer. They toured the ship, and the time came to say goodbye.

Omi, now age 92, told me, "I can still see my dad standing there. It was the last time I saw him."

From Rotterdam, the ship sailed to France. Upon leaving Le Havre, the weather became very stormy. Omi shared a hut with seven other woman and a baby; his little steel crib would slide from side to side in the cabin, moved by the swaying of the ship upon the ocean.

Staying in the cabin was lonely; several of the other women were standoffish. They were traveling with family, and did not talk to other people. She had no one her age to talk to in her living space, so she spent time touring the ship.

Her wanderings led her to meet a young gentleman with a story similar to hers; he was sailing to Canada as well, to meet his own fiancée. Omi and the young man had something in common, and it made her feel safer and less alone. They spent most of the trip in each other's company, talking about Canada - what would it be like? How would the landscape look? How would life be different there? They would have to study English. Dutch was not the common language in Canada.

After 12 days of sailing, the ship reached Canada. Omi's plan was to take the train from Halifax to Union Station in Toronto; the young man was also going to Toronto, and asked: why do we not travel together? We can keep each other company a little longer.

Omi agreed.

The train was very old. There were no blankets, and passengers had to sleep on wooden benches. Pillows could be rented for $0.25 a night.

Omi did not like the Canadian scenery; the weather was very dreary. But the trip was a lot more pleasant in the young man's company.

He lent Omi his coat to use as a blanket. She was shy to sleep next to a man she did not know, but he turned his back to her and faced the wall so she would feel more comfortable. She turned her back to his and they slept like that for the 2 nights it took to arrive.

At 6:00 a.m. on the 3rd day, they arrived in Toronto and disembarked. The young man waited with Omi at the station for her fiancée.

Omi's fiancée arrived with a cane. He had been in a motorcycle accident, and was still recovering. Along with him was his brother, who had just gotten off work at a mechanic shop, and was covered in grime and oil.

The young man was hesitant to leave Omi when he saw this. He was concerned for her safety. She reassured him that she would be fine, and, eventually, he left.

Omi and her fiancée were married a week later.

Life in Canada was a hard adjustment. Omi did not speak much English, and her husband did not either. They had not been together for 2 years, and it took time to grow used to each other again. He found work at a factory doing manual labor, and Omi busied herself with housework. It was not long before she discovered she was pregnant.

A year passed.

Things were easier now then at the beginning. Omi was a happy mother, doting on her little boy. Her husband was learning conversational English from his workplace, and Omi was doing the same in her bible study at the church they had recently become members of.

On a warm Saturday morning, Omi was serving pancakes to her husband, and spoon feeding applesauce to her little boy, when there was a knock at the front door of the house.

She went to open it. Standing in the doorway was the young man from the ship.

He had not married his own fiancée. They had gone their separate ways.

He had used the passenger listing information from the ship to track down Omi's whereabouts.

He wondered if maybe - just maybe - if she had not gotten married either.

He wondered if she would be with him.

When Omi told me this story, she could not give all the details of the interaction; she could not bring herself to say everything.

She told me, however, that after saying goodbye and closing the door, she stared at that door for a long time.

Then, slowly, she went back to the kitchen, where her little boy and her husband - my Opi - were waiting.

She never saw the young man again. One year, while cleaning, she threw away her own copy of the passenger listing, not thinking about how time changes things, not thinking how one day, she might want to look at it again.

That is her biggest regret.

She does not even remember his name.

Hello, Moth?

I know this is probably pointless, after all, you never believed in an afterlife.

I miss you. I miss you a lot.

I didn't expect you to leave my life, ever. We both assumed that I would be the one to die young and you would live to see a thousand worlds end.

Who knew hate would take you from me? Who knew someone would hurt you just because you were a little different.

I miss you. I don't think I will ever not miss you.

You were the only one who kept me together. I needed you. I needed you a lot. You are the only reason I didn't die three years ago.

or two years ago,

or six months ago.

or three weeks ago.

but then someone had to go and ruin it all. They had to go barge into your life and kill you. They killed you because your name was Moth and not Henry. They killed you because you lived the life you wanted, and because you were not afraid to hid it.

Moth I don't know how long I can last without you. You were my other half. You were the one who showed me living was worth it. I cannot do it without you.

Moth? Why were you the one who got a bullet to the skull?

Why wasn't it me?

You deserved the world.

You were my world.

-Siren

In a world painted in shades of gray, a love story unfolded, both heartbreaking and enchanting. Isabella and Alexandra, their names etched in the pages of fate, shared a love that burned bright despite its inevitable tragedy.

A delicate wisp of moonlight, Isabella carried dreams like gossamer threads in the breeze. Alexandra, a poet who found solace in ink and paper, bore the weight of her pain in profound verses. They collided in a bustling city, where dreams often drowned beneath the weight of reality.

Born from yearning, their love became a refuge for two souls navigating life's tumult. Isabella's laughter splashed color onto Alexandra's somber canvas while her words breathed life into Isabella's unspoken thoughts. Together, they teetered on the edge of joy, caught in the delicate beauty they'd found.

But life's cruelty loomed. Alexandra's strength waned as illness took hold, making her a mere echo of her former self. The anguish etched in her eyes mirrored the agony within. Unwavering in her devotion, Isabella stood by her, a sentinel against the storm.

Days melted into a tapestry of suffering. Isabella watched as the light in Alexandra's eyes dimmed, replaced by a hollow gaze that tore at her. Each smile she coaxed was a victory against an implacable enemy. Their world blurred as they navigated a labyrinth of medical jargon and futile treatments.

As Alexandra's condition deteriorated, Isabella's heart fractured. She clung to memories, the echoes of their laughter now fading whispers in empty spaces. Their love story's walls tightened, a symphony of heartache on endless repeat.

The inevitable darkness loomed. Alexandra's final moments painted a symphony of pain, a crescendo of farewells that shattered Isabella's heart. She wept for their love, the dreams extinguished, and the life they'd lost.

The world moved on, but Isabella's heart remained suspended in agonizing loss. Every sunrise felt like a betrayal, every laughter a reminder of the void that consumed her. She wandered through life, a phantom of her former self, carrying the weight of a love story that had both defined and destroyed her.

Isabella's tale wove love and devastation into an intricate tapestry. A testament to the human experience, where love's brilliance ignited even the darkest corners, leaving unhealed scars. A story that echoed like a haunting melody, entwining pain and beauty in a symphony of enduring sorrow.

They met when the flush of youth was well passed. She, a divorced mother of three, had recently left a twenty-five year career to take on the leadership of a flagging non-profit. He, some five years her junior, was ambitious and hardworking and had never married.

It was September. They were attending different conferences in the same hotel. He was an entrepreneur of international repute. She was the force behind the growth and development of a not-for-profit. Decompressing after a long day of seminars, they met at the hotel bar.

"From the gentleman," the bartender said, placing a second glass of chardonnay in front of her. She looked towards the man in question ready to reject the gift.

She did not.

Nor did she smile though she couldn’t look away. Later, they would both say they felt an immediate connection, electric, visceral. Conversation ensued and the connection was confirmed to be absolute, all-encompassing.

They happily discovered they hailed from the same city. She canceled her flight to fly home with him.

They became as inseparable as busy movers and shakers can be. Every week, they made a point to spend one full day together: hiking; visiting museums; attending classical music concerts and the ballet; going to plays and comedy shows; taking classes to try new things like glass-making and cake decorating; trying new dishes - they were both skilled in the kitchen and took pleasure in introducing each other to the cuisines of the world, but they were not averse to dinner out in any of the myriad restaurants of their shared city. When schedules permitted, one would accompany the other on business trips near and far.

Life was good.

A year to the day, he proposed at the end of a hike, having organized a small chamber orchestra to be awaiting them when they reached the summit. With the sounds of Vivaldi wafting in the cool fall air, surrounded by nature beginning to burst with the colors of fall and the river below rushing past, he knelt and placed an exquisite diamond with a gold, infinity band upon her finger.

They set a date for one year.

The next six months were a joy-filled whirlwind of activity-work and wedding planning. However, the results of a routine physical and extensive bloodwork interrupted the joy, piercing, no breaking, two hearts irrevocably.

She never left his side during his short battle with a rare and aggressive form of brain cancer.

She buried him the day that would have been their wedding day.

people change over time

it's a harsh and unkind reality

people change over a decade

love can turn routine and sour

they stop writing love letters

overflowing with grand details

about the ways they miss you

the dot of white face cream

on the end of your nose

turns from a reason to be loved

into something to be begrudged

"our room" becomes "my room"

becomes "your room?" becomes arguing

long nights in your twenties

spent outside or in someone's garage

becomes substance abuse

becomes trying for the kids

becomes a single mother

working seven days a week

i have never seen my mother in love

maybe somewhere she is

i hope she glows with it

It was as if the wind had never blown a gust, as if the leaves had never rustled.

The silence pervaded every crevice of this wretched world.

Even the waves, ever drawn by the moon, lost their tide.

Eerieness in its pureness.

I can remember when the world had light again. I remember the rustling, the whooshing, the slapping of the waves against rocky shores. Time as a concept warped around them, bending to their every action. The Sun's heat beamed down and warmed our skin.

Now, when the sun beams down, it burns.

This is a POV. This story is made-up and I'm using my OCs for this prompt. Yes, I'm using my OCs that were supposed to be for my book, but think of this as a story from an alternative universe.

I rushed through this and I originally wrote this in Google Docs. Expect major grammar mistakes. I might trash this soon.

I hung out with Eden. We were sitting by the bridge, watching frogs like we used to in elementary. Eden drove us around to ice cream shops, and we watched the stars together at midnight. Eden talked about colleges and how he was going to move out of his house to stay at a college dorm with a roommate. I was happy for Eden; he got accepted into his dream university. I applied to the same university as him, but unfortunately, I got rejected. I then realized that he wasn’t like me: High achieving with no passion. He’d always wanted to pursue biology, specifically studying about animals.

The next day, I was at the train station. Eden had his bags ready to depart from this state. He was going to be a couple of states away from me. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. It was embarrassing, but I cried in front of him. The train was about to arrive in a minute. I cried because he was leaving, and chances are, he wasn’t going to come back to visit me. He was pursuing his passion for once. I’m happy for him. I’m happy for my friends who left this state to pursue their passions. Eden was the last person I’ve said goodbye to. We tightly hugged for a while, crying on each other’s shoulders. I don’t want to let go any longer. The train has arrived. I kept hugging him, in fear of being alone again, but he twisted himself out of me. When the train was about to depart, he suddenly kissed my cheeks and hoped that we could meet in the same sky again.

I laughed, and then said, “Eden, we’re always in the same sky.”

He said goodbye to me, and I said goodbye to him back, but by the time my words left my mouth, he was already gone.

Goodbye, goodbye.

I wiped my tears away as the train faded into dust. He’s happy now.

I laid on my bed, staring between the blank spaces in my head when I suddenly got a phone call from Eden’s mom. She never calls me. I picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”

My blood immediately went cold when his mom said that Eden had unfortunately passed away from a homocide.

Day 1 of grieving for Eden’s Death: No. Eden did not die at all. This must be a lie. I walked by his house, and I wished that Eden could see me run for miles just to arrive at his house when he constantly ran for my house. I knocked on the door. Eden’s parents were there and they kept breaking the news to me that Eden was killed. I kept demanding who fucking killed him. They don’t know. I walked back home in tears. Eden’s not dead. Eden must be in college right now.

Day 2 of grieving for Eden’s death: Mom heard about Eden’s death. I don’t know what to do. I attempted to call Eden’s number, knowing damn well he was dead. It will always lead into voice mail. I wanted to break my phone. I wanted to blame myself, even though I wasn’t the one who killed him. I continued to sob. I never knew grieving would be 10x harder than Dad’s death. It felt like I spent my entire life with Eden and never enough with Dad. I don’t want any more people to die. I hate this world. I hate it.

Day 3 of grieving for Eden’s death: Fuck you. Fuck you to whoever killed my best friend. You are so fucking cruel. How the fuck do you think that was a great idea to kill one of the only people I actually love and not feel bad about it? How does it feel to be a murderer? I’ve spent my entire life thinking I was a murderer because of Elliot’s death, but I didn’t even kill him. Elliot chose to kill himself. Fuck you.

Day 7 of grieving for Eden’s death: Questions were still unanswered and I have to figure out how Eden died, and who killed him. I isolated myself in my room for the entire day just to research about the state Eden was at. I checked his university. I checked the news. I checked homicide on the news section of Google within the state he was at.

I don’t know. There were results. Surely, Eden was dead. It has been confirmed. But they never specifically told us who killed him; they were still looking for a suspect. Eden was murderered at campus. There was a shooting at university. I don’t know if I should feel relieved or guilty for being rejected at that university. If I was accepted, I could’ve gotten on the train with him. And I could’ve been the next victim after him.

Day 10 of grieving for Eden’s death: When I tried to text him, my messages went green.

Day 130 of grieving for Eden’s death:

I want to kill myself right now.

I’ve solved it. I knew who killed him.

Fuck you.

Fuck you, Rowan.

Are you fucking happy now?

Killing your best friend as well?

I should’ve realized earlier.

You nearly killed Eden at school.

Now you did it.

You fucking did it.

Are you fucking happy now?

Enjoy your fucking jail time, Rowan.

Day 253 of grieving for Eden’s death:

I didn’t cry any tears for Eden, because I don’t know how to feel right now. Everyday just felt unreal. Everything wasn’t the same without him. We weren’t in the same sky anymore, because he left this universe. No. Rowan made Eden leave this universe. Sometimes, I wished that Rowan killed me instead, because at least he would’ve left Eden alive.

I don’t know why Rowan killed Eden. But when I checked the news for the billionth time, the case wasn’t closed yet. There were further details about Rowan.

Apparently, Rowan killed Eden because Rowan couldn’t bear to see him succeed.

Fuck. I wanted to laugh. Jealousy. Jealousy on another level.

Rowan. You took a life just because of your selfishness. I hate you.

I fucking hate you.

Day 365 of grieving for Eden’s death:

We’ll be in the same sky soon, Eden.

We’ll be able to stargaze again.

I don’t know how death is truly like,

but I’m about to find out right now.

Day 366…

Eden has the most beautiful angel wings I’ve ever seen.

I wasn’t able to see my own wings

but that doesn’t matter right now

because now

I was finally able to hear his voice for the first time in a year.

My grandmother was born at the very tail-end of 1930, the third eldest to a total of 8 children.

She lost her mother when she was 13. She lost her father from the long-lasting effects of World War 1 when she was only 16. She had 5 siblings younger than her own tender sweet year, and acres upon acres of farmland to keep them afloat. But her two older sisters had been off and married, with their own children to keep healthy in a small immigrant town where even at the end of the 1990's still used horse and buggy as transportation. The young boy down the street, three years younger and more nuisance then anything would appear day in and day out to help her out, and though she would never admit it, it was exactly what she needed.

She did it. Goddamnit, she raised and protected and saved those 5 orphaned children, and herself.

When my grandmother came upon her late 20's once she was sure all her siblings and their family estate would stand strong, decided to move after her sisters convinced her, once her anxious fiddling with immigration papers became too much. The plane from her home country landed with a jolt on Canadian soil, and not once did she let go of the passport containing a photo that reflected generations of strife in a tight-lipped grimace and downturn of brows.

The first photo of anyone in her family.

Her younger brother, by only 2 years, had decided it was high time his friend down the street find a wife, and had offered each of his legal sisters, including the photo of my grandmother she had sent once settled in her new country.

My grandfather, the sweet boy down the street,, immigrated within two months. Married the woman he loved all his life. Gave her two beautiful daughters with his features and her strength.

Thank you Alipio, for loving her for the short time life granted you to give her the kindest children and most loving grand children possible.

At the age of 18, I fell in love with someone who in the moment made me feel calm and happiness something I hadn't felt in years or maybe more then a couple of years sooner or later you lose track. Growing up I thought that by being with someone you loved meant that they could cheat and make you feel so unwanted and used because that meant they loved you. To me that was their way of showing interest, so I at the time didn't know what was considered a healthy loving relationship. So, continuing on I had always dated those who made me apologize to them for their wrong doings to me and made me feel bad if I didn't as they said, and at times when we had fights I always apologized first because I didn't want them to leave me. But then I found my calm my other half which sounds like Im not old enough to be considered having an other half but that what he is. he guides me when Im going down a dark path tells me everything will be ok. My first, healthy love, but although its healthy due too all my past relationships I always wondered when he would leave me, or make me feel terrible and apologize to him. He, of course would reassure me and tell me how I was his everything, how nothing and no one would ever tear us apart because without him he wouldn't make it. He would pick me flowers from the side of the road because he knew those would always mean more to me then any bouquet bought from the store. I would spend every other day with him, morning till night. I even met his parents, his parents were the most sweet people anyone could ever have and on my birthdays they would pick me flowers from their yard and give them to me because they couldn't afford much which always made me happy and as they did that he would slowly slip away from me, forgetting anniversaries and soon birthdays. His parents, of course would tell me that the flowers were from him and how he would never forget but most anyone who has been down this path knows thats never the truth. So, just like that I was just there existing not wanting to leave because I loved him and although I knew I wasn't happy, how could I leave the person who told me they loved me and I them. Well, week's pass and the texts stop coming, calls cease to exist and now I am back to my past texting them asking why, if theres anything I can do for them to love me again, for me to exist to them like the first time they ever said those three words. I never did get answer, but his parents still love me as their own and even though I don't keep in contact, it's been said they grow me flowers every year on my birthday. It's been three years.

She is older

I her younger

Yet our minds in sync

Our love, while immense

As we lay hand in hand, know it cannot bear fruit

But I don't mind to waste some years in this place

For of all the past lives I have lived

And the future lives to come

This may be the only life I will meet my fated one

For fate has tossed us all around

And it is only in this life our souls have touched

Our arms have been stretched, but our fingers never brushed

But I'm glad we met in the same time

Though our time left is not the same

So, i think i can spare a few moments

For I do not know when our souls will meet again.