AsLaz🖤

Alaz's pain

The caravan door creaks as I push it open, the cold evening air slipping in like a thief, stealing what little warmth remains. The sound echoes in the silence, a silence I've grown accustomed to in the years since she left. Since I let her leave.

I step inside, the familiar scent of damp wood and dust filling my lungs. The space is small, cluttered with remnants of a life that feels like it belonged to someone else. A faded photograph pinned to the wall catches my eye—Asi and me, before everything fell apart. Before I destroyed everything.

I collapse onto the worn-out bed, the springs groaning under my weight. The mattress is thin, lumpy, but it's the only comfort I've known since that night. I close my eyes, but the memories are relentless, always clawing their way to the surface.

I remember the look in her eyes when she told me—eyes brimming with tears, but her voice steady, almost detached. "I aborted the baby," she said, and in that moment, the world stopped. My heart shattered, but I couldn't let her see it. I couldn't let her see how scared I was, how terrified I was of becoming a father.

"I didn't want the baby," I had spat out, the words burning my throat. "I don't want to be like him. Like my father."

Her silence was deafening, her expression unreadable. And then she was gone. Just like that. Gone. I let her walk away because I thought it was for the best. For her, for me, for the child who would never exist.

But she lied.

I found out months later, by chance, that she hadn't gone through with it. That she'd kept the baby—our baby. And that she'd been raising her alone, struggling, barely surviving. The guilt nearly crushed me. It still does. Every single day.

I've searched for her ever since. Every town, every city, every club where she might sing to make ends meet. I've chased shadows and whispers, each one leading me to a dead end. But I can't stop. I won't stop. Not until I find her, until I see her again, even if she'll never forgive me.

The nights are the hardest. The quiet. The loneliness. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, haunted by what-ifs and could-have-beens. What if I'd been braver? What if I hadn't let my fear of becoming my father drive her away? What if I had held her that night, told her we'd figure it out together, that I wanted her and our baby more than anything in the world?

But I didn't. And now I'm here, in this caravan that feels like a prison, surrounded by memories that cut deeper than any blade.

I try to imagine what she's doing right now, where she is, how she's coping. Does she think of me? Does she hate me? Probably. I hate myself.

I see her face everywhere—in every woman who walks by, in every song that plays on the radio, in every dream that turns into a nightmare. I see her holding our daughter, their faces blurred by tears I refuse to shed. I don't deserve to cry. I don't deserve to mourn what I threw away.

I reach for the bottle of whiskey on the table, the liquid sloshing inside as I unscrew the cap. The burn as it goes down my throat is a welcome distraction from the ache in my chest. I drink to forget, but it only sharpens the pain, like salt on an open wound.

The caravan door swings open again, a gust of wind blowing in, scattering papers across the floor. I don't bother to pick them up. I just sit there, staring at the darkness outside, waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for a new day that will be just like the last—a day without her, without them.

But I'll keep searching. Even if it takes the rest of my life. I'll keep looking for her, hoping, praying that maybe, just maybe, I'll find her before it's too late.

And if I do, I'll beg for her forgiveness. I'll tell her the truth—that I was scared, that I've always loved her, that not a day goes by when I don't regret what I said. That I want to be a father, to be there for her and our child, to make up for the years I've lost.

But deep down, I know it's just a fantasy. She's better off without me. She always was. I ruined her life once. I won't do it again.

The wind howls outside, the caravan shaking, but I don't move. I just sit there, bottle in hand, waiting for a miracle that will never come.

And in the silence, I whisper her name.

"Asi..."

But the wind carries it away, just like it carried her, leaving me alone with nothing but my regrets and the empty space where she used to be.