Within the countless iterations of my lifetimes, I've loved. Infinitely so, I do wonder what name is the most beautiful. Kiana? Melissa? Aria? Svetlana? Polly? Renee?

Kevin and I often pondered this, perched on the edges of rocks at the tender age of eight. We'd argue about what the future might hold, and I'd share my thoughts. Sometimes, this meant he'd become a doctor; other times, it meant he'd go to war. And sometimes, it meant he'd meet his end.

In this particular instance, I granted him the gift of life, just as he desired. I refrained from mentioning the future. I turned a deaf ear to the whispers that unveiled Kevin's innermost secrets.

As I sat there, the vast expanse of sky overhead, I softly breathed out the name I deemed the most beautiful: Lulu.

And Kevin echoed it. I observed him, aware that we'd engage in our customary debates, our old friendship weighed down by the complexities of love. Yet, I remained convinced that no other name could claim more of her affection than the most wretched one I knew.

"Kwame," I hissed, my voice thick with resentment and anger.

© Seakay Margiadanae