"Maybe in next life, I will be loved by the person who gave me life" by PQHAÜS

"Maybe in next life, I will be loved by the person who gave me life" by PQHAÜS

(Acrylic on canvas / 16x20 inches / 2024)

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Maybe in next life, I will be loved by the person who gave me a life

For the girl whose father never stayed, love feels like a foreign language—spoken but never understood. She doesn’t know what it feels like to be held in a love that expects nothing in return, a love that doesn’t require proving or earning. She watches other daughters laugh with their fathers, their connection effortless, as if love is the air they breathe. And she feels like an outsider, standing in the shadow of a bond she’ll never understand.

It’s not envy that grips her—it’s something heavier. A dull ache that doesn’t scream but hums persistently, a reminder of what she has missed. She thinks about the milestones where he was absent: the scraped knees from soccer practice, the victories that went uncelebrated, the nights when fear or loneliness crept in, and no steady voice told her it would be okay. Each memory sharpens the hollow space he left behind, a space that swallows the light no matter how much she tries to fill it.

She wonders if it was her fault. If she was born lacking something, a flaw so fundamental that even a father couldn’t bear to stay. These thoughts creep in during the quiet hours, when the world feels still and the weight of her solitude presses heavier. She doesn’t cry for him—not anymore. The tears dried up long ago, leaving behind only a deep, simmering absence.

When she sees another father and daughter, it feels like a betrayal of her own imagination. She wants to turn away but finds herself staring, studying their ease, their connection, their shared glances. It feels unreal, like watching a scene from a film she wasn’t cast in. The moment passes, but it leaves its mark, another bruise on a wound that has never fully healed.

Her life carries on, of course. Time has a way of moving forward, indifferent to what it leaves behind. She builds herself up, learns to stand on her own feet, and keeps her vulnerabilities tucked away where no one can reach them. The absence remains, though, a ghost lingering at the edges of her life. She feels it in her interactions, in her relationships, in the quiet moments when she wonders what it would have been like to know unconditional love. Not romantic love or even friendship—just the love that comes from being someone’s child, from being wanted and protected without question.

But she doesn’t dwell for too long. There’s no point. The life she has is hers alone, and she moves through it with a kind of stoic acceptance. Some days, she’s fine. Other days, the weight of what she missed threatens to pull her under. And yet, she survives—not because she’s stronger for it, but because survival doesn’t require strength. It only requires enduring. And she’s good at that.