I always walked home after work.
I had a car of course, a nice one actually, but walking was sacred to me.
It was my time to tether myself, to stitch all the fragments of the day back into place. After hours inside fluorescent-lit corridors and the invisible weight of people's pain pressing against my ribs.
Not that I hated my job but, I needed the air,
I needed the quiet.
And on a snowy day, it was bliss.
The trees whispered.
The frost bit.
I felt clean in winter.
Present.
Awake.
It's ironic, really. I was conceived under the scalding sun of a remote Indonesian coast, inside a sapphire cave where my parents honeymooned.
But I was born in the heart of winter.
And I always believed I belonged to it.
To snowflakes dissolving on my lashes, to cheeks flushed pink with cold, to the sting of wind against my throat.
People found the cold unbearable. But not me. The way it numbed my fingers, painted my nose cherry red, it made me feel alive. Winter refreshed me. And it gave me something else: the promise of warmth after. The steam of a shower, the coziness of home, the smell of comfort food, the quiet intimacy of a house wrapped in snow.
And of course, there was Christmas. That soft nostalgic ache always tugged at my chest, memories of Dublin with my dad's parents, and of the three of us back when my mother and father were still wildly in love, before duty and distance tore the seams.
Back when I believed we'd be the three musketeers forever.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out.
It was a video call from dad.
I remembered tomorrow was his 50th birthday.
I accepted the call and his face came into the camera, grinning.
"Well hello there, Ginger Ale."
"Why hello to you too, Mr. Chief Officer."
I rolled my eyes, at the familiar endearment, it sounded weird yet it came from a core childhood memory.
I was six, stole Grandpa's ginger ale on Christmas Eve, climbed a tree, and belted out:
"Ginger Ale, Ginger Ale, Ginger all the way!"
This old man never let me live it down. And with my wild red curls and fair skin I looked like I'd been brewed in ginger ale anyway.
Sometimes people asked where my name came from. Eurasia.
It sounded mythical to some. But to me, it was geography turned love story.
I was half Irish, half Chinese. Mom gave me her almond-shaped eyes, her delicate beauty and grace. Dad gave me the chaos, the freckles and the green eyes.
My name bound two continents, It was a name I had grown into, a reminder of the balance I always walked, two cultures, two languages, two selves. Somehow both. Somehow whole.
"So," I said, adjusting my scarf as I walked, "Big 5-0 tomorrow huh, Any special plans? Someone dragging you out for a pint and a slow dance?"
He scoffed "Eh, I'm going out with the lads, darts, huinness, loud insults. You know, civilized things."
"Right, because nothing screams 'midlife milestone' like drunken chaos."
I smirked but I felt the sting of the tears at the corner of my eyes.
Although separated, my parents, still loved each other dearly.
My father, had never stopped loving my mother. He never dated again. Always hung up on her. My mother on the other hand, despite returning to China to care for her aging mother, had moved back to the same city we lived in Ireland after grandma passed away, but her pride and tradition kept her from reconciling with him. It was tragic and beautiful how they were bound in a timeless heartbreak that neither could walk away from.
I guess he noticed my mood change, but as he tilted his head to take a closer look and opened his mouth to speak, a screech shattered the calm.
I turned toward the noise and sighed.
"Beanie!" I shouted. "Get off the poor cat!"
My old tabby froze mid swat, then bolted toward me, meowing like nothing had happened.
I scooped him up.
"You're such a bully," I whispered, kissing the top of his head.
Dad cackled "Still got his killer instincts, I see."
"He learned them from you," I shot back. "You were his original bad influence."
He laughed even harder at that.
I turned the corner and spotted the soft lights of home glowing through the snow. The moment I stepped inside, the smell hit me, something roasted, something buttery, something divine.
And there he was.
My Caspian.
Standing in the kitchen in a charcoal apron, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration as he stirred a sauce.
His mocha freckled skin glowed in the warm light, and his ocean blue eyes flicked up when he heard the door.
When they landed on me, he smiled slow and dimpled like I was the only person in the universe.
"Hey, love,"
My heart skipped, It did that every time.
I made my way to him, but before I could reach him, my dad's voice groaned from the still-open phone in my hand.
"There it is again, that smile. That used to be my smile, before this bastard came along."
Caspian chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eyes "Don't be jelly, Brian."
He wrapped his arms around me and pressed a kiss to my temple before leaning toward the camera with a playful grin.
"They say a girl's first love is always her father," he said.
Dad responded in a theatrically pitiful voice, "So when are you finally bringing her over to visit her poor, forgotten old man?"
"First of all, you're not that old. And second, I was there last week. But instead of hanging out with your loving daughter, you chose to spend your vacation glued to your recliner, drinking beer and watching the Champions League."
At the mention of that he waved off my words like an annoying fly and lit up. "Did you catch Liverpool's match yesterday?"
Caspian's face lit up too.
"That goal! Absolutely insane!"
I rolled my eyes in exasperation "Ugh. I can't with you two." I shoved the phone toward Caspian. "Here, you talk to your best friend."
Watching him banter effortlessly with my dad always melted something in me. My parents treated him like family, like the son they never had, he treated them like the parents he never got to know.
I knew how much it meant to him to experience parental love and little moments like this one made it more special.
My eyes drifted to the kitchen counter. A plate of vibrant salads caught my attention, and I reached for a cube of watermelon dressed with crumbled feta, cracked pepper, sea salt, and a glistening drizzle of olive oil. I popped it into my mouth and the sweet, salty, tangy flavor exploded across my tongue.
A quiet moan escaped before I even realized it.
"Save those moans for later, yeah?"
Caspian whispered seductively in my ear, I blinked horrified.
"Please tell me you hang up on my father?"
"Of course, wouldn't want him to have a heart attack. " he replied doing his best to look offended but failed, we both burst out laughing.
He kissed my forehead.
"Your face is frozen, go take a hot shower. I've got dinner covered."
In the shower, I let the heat melt the cold off my skin, my thoughts floated, my body unwound.
This life, our life it was everything I'd ever wanted. My work drained me, yes, but it gave me purpose. And coming home to him, to the laughter, the warmth, the smells and soft touches and sleepy couch cuddles, it was the reward for everything I endured.
Dinner was perfect, the night was quiet. The movie was soft background noise, I fell asleep in his arms, just like every date night, I didn't even feel the moment I drifted off, I simply melted into him, every worry stripped away.
I woke with a jolt sometime after midnight. The silence wrapped around the house, soft and steady. Caspian slept beside me, and for a moment I just stayed there, curled against him, listening to the beat of his heart.
Then I remembered.
I untangled myself carefully and walked into the bathroom. Stood in front of the mirror looking at my reflection.
People complain about their lives.
But I never did.
I was a child of divorce, yes. But I had two loving parents. I got to study what I loved, had a career I was passionate about. I had a car, a home, money, stability. And most importantly, I had him.
Caspian.
The man who embodied every woman's dream. The man who loved me with reverence and patience and I loved him back just as fiercely.
My life was perfect.
Well.
Almost.
I opened the bathroom cabinet and pulled out the box of pregnancy tests. My hands were trembling, my stomach was tight.
Even though this was a monthly ritual now, the anxiety never left.
I took the test.
Sat on the stool.
Waited.
Negative.
Again.
My heart cracked.
Tears came silently as I mourned the baby who never came. When will I get to feel their first kick? My hand found my lower abdomen. Would they have my green orbs? or would they get their father's endless blue skies? I will never know, will I? I let the ache swallow me whole sobbing quietly.
Then arms wrapped around me.
Caspian.
He said nothing, just held me, let me cry. let me fall apart.
He always prioritized me, even when he was hurting too. And he was hurting, I could feel it in the way he held me and I, I hated it.
When I finally looked up, he wiped away my tears gently.
I kissed him, he kissed me back.
It started soft, but I needed more, I needed him.
And he knew.
He lifted me from the stool, carried me back to bed, and laid me beneath him, made love to me like I was sacred, like he needed me to breathe. He was gentle, giving, focused entirely on me.
He knew exactly what I needed, how to touch me, how to love me.
Only when I was spent, when my body was floating and my mind in a state of ecstasy, did he stop.
I curled against his chest, and he wrapped me in his arms. He held me tight, kissed my forehead, whispered sweet nothings until my breath evened out.
His scent.
His heartbeat.
His love.
I slept so soundly, comforted by his scent, a scent that always lulled me into a peaceful sleep. His warmth grounding me, his heartbeat in my ear like a lullaby. The room always felt softer, cozier with him. There was magic in how my body fit into his, like we were carved for each other.
Had I known what was coming, I might have stayed there forever.
I am but a human. And humans can't freeze time.
But maybe, just maybe…
I would have slept a little longer.