Seven minutes to forever

2 The Weight of Memories

I've always hated my birthday. Most people celebrate theirs with cakes, candles, and laughter, but for me, it's a reminder of everything I've lost. People say it's the day you should feel the most special, but for me, it's the day that takes more than it ever gives.

Eighteen. A new year, but nothing feels different. Just another reminder that I'm still here—still alone.

When I was two, my parents died on my birthday. They were on their way to celebrate with me—balloons, presents, cake—but instead, they never came back. I don't remember any of it. No details, no sounds, no smells. They're just... gone. All I have left is a single photograph taken on my first birthday. In it, we're all smiling—my parents are on either side of me, and we look happy. But it's just a picture, a frozen memory of something I can never get back.

After their deaths, I was sent to an orphanage, then bounced between foster homes like I was nobody's responsibility. Each new place felt colder than the last, and I never found love in any of them. But what I did find—what I clung to—were books. Books became my escape, my refuge. In their pages, I found worlds where people didn't abandon you, where there was always hope, and where love could be more than just a distant dream. They became my closest friends, the only companions I could rely on.

I had to run away from my last foster home when I was fifteen. It was unbearable—people who barely spoke to me, who didn't care if I ate or slept or even existed. I couldn't take it anymore. I left in the middle of the night with nothing but the clothes on my back and a couple of books stuffed into a worn-out bag. I found a job at a supermarket, and for months, I slept in the store's backroom, hiding between boxes of old inventory, careful not to get caught. It wasn't comfortable, but it was better than staying where I wasn't wanted.I lived like that for a while, saving every penny I could. I'd eat once a day, just enough to keep going, and the rest of my money went into a jar for my escape. I dreamed of college, of becoming an artist—someone who could make worlds out of nothing, someone who mattered. Eventually, I saved up enough to rent a small one-bedroom apartment. It's nothing fancy, just a tiny space with cracked walls and creaky floors, but it's mine. I have a bed now, an actual bed where I can sleep without waking up in pain. I even have a blanket, a real one that keeps me warm on cold nights. It's not much, but it's better than what I had before.

Today, like every year, I took the bus to the graveyard. The flowers in my hands felt light, but the weight in my heart never changes. As I stepped off the bus, I saw her—the old woman who runs the flower stall at the entrance. She's there every year, always with the same kind smile and knowing eyes.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," she said, her voice soft but strong. I gave her a small smile in return, one that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Thanks," I murmured, pulling out the crumpled bills to pay for the bouquet.She waved her hand dismissively, refusing the money. "It's on the house. Every year, you come by... you remind me so much of my daughter when she was your age." Her eyes glistened as if she, too, was carrying her own grief."Thank you," I said quietly, taking the flowers. They were a mix of every kind she had—roses, daisies, lilies, and carnations—because I still don't know what kind my parents would've liked. Another thing I'll never know about them.Before I could walk away, she placed a gentle hand on my arm. "This year will be different," she said, her voice low but sure. "I can feel it. Happiness will find you, child."I tried to smile, but it felt hollow. "I hope so," I whispered, though I didn't really believe it. As I walked slowly toward their graves, I felt a strange tug at my heart. "Do you think they know?" I asked the old woman, looking back over my shoulder. "Do you think they can see me?"Her gaze softened, and she nodded slightly. "In my heart, I believe they're always with us, watching over us in ways we can't always understand."

Her words lingered in the air as I continued on, resonating with the ache in my chest. I reached their headstones, knelt down, and placed the flowers in front of them. I stared at their names carved into the stone, the final reminder that they're gone forever. My voice cracked as I began to speak, not knowing what to say but feeling the need to say something.

"I'm saving for college," I began, my voice trembling. "I know it's not much, but I'm trying. I'm working two jobs, and I'm... I'm doing my best. I hope you'd be proud of me." Tears streamed down my cheeks, each drop carrying a piece of my sorrow. "I'm sorry," I choked out, wiping at my eyes. "I'm sorry I don't know what flowers you liked. I never got to know those little things about you. I barely remember your voices or how you smelled, or even what it felt like to be held by you." "I wish I could have known you," I continued, my voice breaking. "I wish you were here. I wish you could see me now. I know I'm not perfect, but I'm trying so hard."

The silence enveloped me, and in that stillness, I imagined their voices. What would they say? "We're proud of you, sweetheart," I whispered, mimicking a gentle tone I hoped they would have. "You're stronger than you think.""I hope you're happy," I said, pressing my palm against the cool stone. "And I hope you can forgive me for not being the daughter you deserved." As I stood up, brushing the dirt off my jeans, a strange feeling washed over me. I glanced around, sensing that I wasn't alone. The air felt charged, thick with anticipation. It felt like someone was watching me, but when I turned, there was no one there. Just rows of silent graves, standing like sentinels in the fading light. I shook it off, telling myself it was just my imagination.

Heading back toward the entrance, I passed the flower stall again, and the old woman smiled at me, her eyes filled with something I couldn't quite understand. "It's okay to let the past linger, but don't let it weigh you down. You're meant for more."I thanked her once more, clutching my coat tighter around me as the wind picked up, carrying with it the last of the children's laughter.

The bus ride back was quiet, but my mind was a storm of thoughts. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass window, watching the city fade into blurred lights and shifting shadows. The feeling of being watched still clung to me like an echo I couldn't shake. Maybe it was just the heaviness of the day—the weight of memories, both real and imagined—or maybe it was something deeper, something I wasn't ready to understand.

When the bus pulled up to my stop, I stepped off and breathed in the cool night air. For a moment, I stood there, letting the world move around me. My heart ached, but I couldn't let it consume me. I had to keep going, had to push through, just like always.

As I walked the familiar path to the diner, I realized something: No matter how broken or lost I felt, I was still here. I had survived the loneliness, the heartache, the years of feeling like a ghost in my own life. And maybe that was something to hold onto. Maybe survival itself was its own kind of victory.

I still didn't have all the answers. I still felt the weight of what was missing, but as I looked up at the sky, the stars barely visible behind the city's glow, I made a quiet promise to myself. One day, I'll do more than just survive.

I'll find something—someone—worth living for. I'll find my way, no matter how long it takes. And when I do, maybe, just maybe, I'll finally feel whole.

With a deep breath, I tucked my hands into my pockets and walked into the night. The future was uncertain, but I wasn't running from it anymore.

I was walking toward it

As she walked away from the grave, a bittersweet smile crossed her lips. With every step, she carried their love with her, a quiet promise to honor their memory by forging her own path, hoping that one day, the whispers of the past would guide her toward a future filled with the joy she so desperately sought.