𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “In Another Life” by Angela Garilao

 

Published by: Iana Henson 

Date published: August 13, 2025

Time published: 8:52 Am

𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗔𝗥𝗬: “In Another Life” by Angela Garilao

Category: Prose

Theme: The bittersweet solitude of longing for a different path.

She walks beneath the golden sun, her thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind—drifting between what is, what was, and what might’ve been. The horizon lit her eyes with stories she’ll never live. The wind combs through her curly hair, as if urging her to keep walking, to keep dreaming, to keep on wondering.

This is her favorite time of day: when the light is just enough to blur the edges of reality. When the world feels almost kind. When the sky is painted in honey and fire. She follows a narrow path through the park, every step a slow exhale, until a wooden bench invites her to rest. She takes the seat. The city hums quietly around her.

And then she sees them—

a boy, no older than five, running across the grass, arms wide like he’s chasing the sun. A man kneels to catch him, laughter scattering between them like confetti. Nearby, a woman watches with soft eyes, holding a tiny bottle of bubbles in her hand, wearing a smile that carries both the weight of love and the lightness of the moment.

They are not remarkable. Just a family. But something in their simplicity presses gently against her chest.

“𝘐𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦,” she tells herself,

“𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯.”

She turns away, a bittersweet smile brushing her lips as wistful thoughts ripple inside her mind.

A few benches away, laughter spills from a circle of friends. They’re young, loud, recklessly alive. They argue about courses they might take, tease each other over dreams and dares. One of them points at the sky and says something about the future—and for a moment, they all look up.

She watches them, heart quiet.

“𝘐𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦,” she thinks,

“𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺.”

The laughter fades into the trees as she turns away.

Across the street, someone steps out of a black car, designer bags in hand, phone at her ear, smile unfazed. A few feet away, a man taps his card without hesitation and leaves the café with a pastry that probably costs more than her dinner. No hesitation. No calculation. 

She holds her coat tighter—almost as if she’s holding herself.

“𝘐𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦,” she whispers,

“𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺.”

And then, as if the wind itself has grown tired of her pretending—

the thought breaks.

The illusion.

The daydream.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨.

There is no other life.

No reset.

No parallel world where things unfold more kindly.

There is only this one.

This body.

This bench.

This ache.

And she sits in the middle of it all—

full of lives that will never be hers,

wishing she could stop wondering

what it would be like

to have never had to wonder at all.