blurred lines in a forbidden fairytale

{35} hope and longing

Aurora's POV:

My heart pounds, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "She makes me happy, Mom. Taylor... she's good to me."

"Good to you? She's too old for you, Aurora, and I don't care how you feel right now. You're young and confused, and she's taking advantage of that."

"It's not like that!" I protest, my voice breaking. "You don't know her. You don't understand—"

"What I understand is that she has no place in your life," my mom says firmly, her voice like steel. "This is over, Aurora. End of story."

Her words settle like a heavy weight in my chest, and I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "You can't just decide that. This is my life. She... she loves me."

My mom scoffs, her face twisting into something close to disgust. "Love? You don't even know what that is yet, Aurora. You're just a child, and I won't have you throwing everything away for some infatuation."

"Mom, please..." My voice is barely a whisper, my throat tight as I try to hold back the tears. I feel like I'm crumbling, like everything I've held close, everything that makes sense, is slipping through my fingers.

But she's unyielding, her expression hard and unforgiving. "If I ever see her here again, or find out you've been talking to her... you'll regret it, Aurora. I'm serious."

The words hang between us, heavy and final. She turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, my chest heaving, the silence pressing in on me. I'm trapped, suffocated, every ounce of joy from earlier turned to ash.

Taylor's POV:

I sit on the couch, the silence of my empty apartment pressing in on me. My eyes drift to the clock, and I realize how long it's been since Aurora left. The room feels colder without her here, her laughter echoing faintly in my memory. I can still see her smile in my mind, feel the warmth she left in the air, her "I love you" still ringing in my ears. But now, it's just me, alone, with nothing but the weight of everything.

I reach for a piece of paper and a pen, my fingers trembling slightly. Everything that's happened lately—the memories resurfacing, the guilt I've fought to bury—it all swirls around me, demanding to be heard, to be spoken, to be faced.

The pen hovers above the paper, and I take a deep breath, grounding myself, pulling together every fragile part of me that's cracking open. I think of her—the daughter I've never met, the life I walked away from—and I feel something break in me, something that's been locked up tight for so long.

My beloved daughter,

I don't know if you'll ever read this. I don't even know if you'll ever want to find me. I can't blame you if you don't.

But if you do, I need you to know something, something I've never had the courage to say out loud until now. Not a single day has gone by where I haven't thought of you. Not a single moment where I haven't wondered who you've become, if you're happy, if you know how much you were loved.

The day I let you go was the hardest day of my life. I thought I was doing the right thing, giving you a better chance, a better life. I was so young—too young, too afraid, too selfish, maybe. I didn't know anything, not about being a mother, not about how to hold together a life that felt like it was falling apart. But I loved you. Even then, I loved you more than I knew what to do with.

You were this tiny miracle I never expected, someone I could've poured all of myself into. I held you once, just once, before they took you away. You were warm and so small, and I felt something break in me that I still don't know how to mend. I wanted to keep you, I wanted it so much it hurt. But I was young and scared, and I told myself that you'd be better off somewhere else, with someone who could give you more than I could.