As I am typing this, my six-year-old cousin is playing with his toy trucks beside me.
This reminds me of the moments the world betrayed me by ignoring my cries for help and carrying on as usual.
This reminds me of the way my Mother offers me food each time I lock myself in our room, refusing to talk.
It is as if she’s convinced that my meaningless sadness will be cured by a hot bowl of rice.
You know what? Maybe it does.
I am trying not to break down in front of this little boy I cherish most.
I am afraid that he will associate my tears with every girl he will eventually meet—-just like how he associated ice for healing wounds caused by violence after witnessing my Mother getting hit.
I am afraid that instead of teaching him about the good things in the world, the only thing he will understand is how terrifying it really is.
I am afraid that the darkness will keep up with him just like it did to me.
I reached out and hugged him, trying to protect him from harm. But maybe, all I’m doing is protecting myself.
As I walked the few steps separating his house from mine, a thought lingers in my mind.
“Sometimes I think that this little boy will save me.”
Maybe he will.
Maybe he already did.
Finally bidding me good night, he ran with his small feet towards his house—happy to have found his way home.
This time I think, this little boy has saved me.