Emancipating The Love (On-going)

Chapter 39

Chances

TW: Mention of death and funeral.

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The air smelled faintly of antiseptic. It lingered coldly in the room, unwanted but persistent. It was the reek of over cleanliness—unforgettable, stamped in mind as a phantom scent that hunts from time to time.

The strong waft of fresh Roses, Orchids, Chrysanthemums, Lilies, Carnations, memories, and regrets whirled in the space, every sniff a reminder of what has been lost. The flowers bloomed beautifully, vibrant against the murky ambiance of the place.

The room was lit with bright lights, but each tear was a moisture that formed invisible clouds that gloomed the hall in the heaviest way. It was not forming a storm—suddenly downpouring but will eventually fade.

It was creating something beyond that—slow and consistent; destructive and catastrophic. It was not something someone could prepare enough for. Not a calamity, not a disaster, not a fleeting event—it didn't have an aftermath that time can fix.

It was grief.

It endures for so long—never-ending, unescapable, lasting. Leaving a mark that could never be erased.

The house that was once occupied of dreams and hope was lit brightly—not of glee and laughter, but of fluorescent lights installed to make the place look as welcoming as it used to. Of bulbs attempting to replace the natural glow it once had.

The place was solemn, sympathetic, and intimate, but not enough. The silence felt pressuring, it pressed heavier with every ticking second, as though the air demanded mourning.

Every sob was wordless grief. The sound someone makes when no hope is left in them. The cry of soldiers who had lost its greatest comrade. It was quiet longing and regrets formed into tears and restraint sound.

Cries were muffled by cupped hands and handkerchief, everyone was respectful to not ruin the solemnity of the moment, not wanting to break the silence that emphatized too good, it felt alive as though embracing them with memories.

But hearts cried louder than they could ever hold back, making even a whimper echo in loud aching.

And then, there's Lea.

Her clothes were as pure as her soul. Her cardigan wrapped around her like arms she seeked to embrace her.

Her face was bare and dry, stance was perfectly tall and straight, her hair free and flowing. She looked composed, the perfect picture of an honest politician. The embodiment of a formidable business woman.

But that identity of hers didn't belong right there. It was made for board-meetings, for formal events, for professional settings. It wasn't a skin she's supposed to wear in a grevious moment like that, but she did anyway—forced, fake, a shield that she carried heavily but she held onto as though it was protecting her.

She wore it, not as her own, but as a mask that covers what's beyond she could show.

Lea could only carry herself through the storm to survive. She could only endure the pain and breathe. She had to tighten her own grip and hold herself together, she couldn't let herself fall into pieces.

Not with Elli learning the complexity of life, the miracle in her strongly holding on, and her heart cracked in pieces, wanting to shatter.

Not when lives depended on her.

Life.

Ironic how one day, it's spent heedlessly. Everyday an opportunity overlooked, a chance taken for granted. Like oxygen mindlessly being inhaled and heaved—only could someone realize its true importance when they're drowning and catching for breath. When it's gone.