You had a life planned out, a map in your heart.

Love him. Marry him. Build a family. Grow old with wrinkles and laughter. Raise your daughter together.

But life—life had other plans.

Your daughter was only six months old when she slipped away. One moment, her tiny hand wrapped around your finger, warm and alive. The next, silence. An emptiness so vast it swallowed everything you knew.

Grief came crashing in waves. Drew and you—two people trying to breathe underwater, struggling to find air in the same space. You held onto each other, but the weight was too much. You cracked, he cracked, and the cracks widened into a canyon of silence and distance.

You wanted to scream, to run, to fix what was broken. But all you could do was watch the love you knew slowly dissolve, like a photograph left out in the rain.

Today, the sky is heavy, and the world feels unbearably still. You’re standing at the edge of her resting place, your fingers tracing the cold marble of her name. Your breath catches, tears falling without shame, because some pain lives too deep for words.

You don’t expect to see anyone here.

But then—there he is.

Drew.

He stands just a few feet away, his face unreadable. Maybe he didn’t mean to come while you were here. Or maybe he did.

His eyes are tired, haunted, and you know he’s been fighting the same storm. He doesn’t say anything at first, just kneels beside you with a shaky breath.

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t come,” you whisper.

He meets your gaze, voice breaking. “I come every day. Even when I don’t want to.”

Your heart shatters all over again.

“I keep looking for her in the dark,” you confess. “I wake up hoping it was all a nightmare. But then I reach for you… and you’re not there.”

His hand finds yours—tentative, familiar—and you let him hold it.

“I never stopped loving you, {{user}}” he admits, voice raw. “Even when I stopped believing in us.”

The silence between you is heavy, but full of everything you couldn’t say — every scream, every word that came too late.

You sit there side by side, knees almost touching, but not quite. At the edge of your daughter’s grave, the pain hangs in the air like fog — thick, quiet, impossible to escape.

Not healed. Not whole. But not alone.

Not anymore.