My Daughter

Her room was still the same. Her wallpaper was still the bright sketch of golden sunflowers covering the room in false sunshine, and in her case, false hope.
Her books were still untidily stacked on her computer table, along with her favorite sweater strewn carelessly on the back of the chair. I looked up and admired the stars she painted at the tender age of ten when she was filled with as much joy as joy itself, but as my eyes trailed down until it hit the floor of her room I saw the room evolve; much like she did.
Other than her bedsheets and spreads, the room was empty. It lacked the joy of the wallpaper that she begged me to get for her when she was eight. The walls, inanimate, were the only sense of life to remain. She no longer created art or had the drive to do anything, I noticed that. I noticed but did nothing, for my daughter was strong and filled with hope, she'd be okay soon.

I leaned my head back and wiped my eyes that prickled with heated tears that fell without my permission.

She should've been okay.