Ophelia’s Farewell to the Waters

 The river simply stretches its arms wide, without asking any questions, as if it welcomes her.  

Pressing her bare feet into the damp earth, she stands at its edge, her white dress billowing like a ghost half-born. She closes her eyes, listening to the soft murmur of water around her—a lullaby too tender for the violent screams tangled in her thoughts.  

Once, she moved through the corridors of Elsinore, her presence a hush before rain—her steps unnoticed, her words soft-spoken, her voice swallowed by the wills of men who dictated her fate. Her father told her whom to trust, and her brother warned her whom to love.  

But Hamlet’s love had been sweet once—or so she believed. There was the warmth of devotion in his words, and his gaze held the promise of something pure. He admired her—her beauty, her softness. But love, in its cruelest form, does not fade—it fractures, leaving poor souls to suffer.  

The change came like winter’s frost—slow, creeping, undeniable. He withdrew. His once-honeyed words turned sharp, his love twisted into mockery.  

"Get thee to a nunnery," he spat, as though her presence was a stain, as though she was unworthy of anything but exile.  

"I loved you not." 

She does not remember when she began to unravel. Was it the moment his laughter turned hollow, his eyes drifting past her as if she had never mattered? Or was it when her father turned her into a puppet and told her to spy, to obey, to betray—making her a traitor to her own heart?  

Or maybe—maybe it was always meant to end this way.  

She lost him, lost herself in the process. And when her father was killed—his blood staining the air, his voice forever silenced—Ophelia was left with nothing but echoes of her own screams.  

She steps forward.  

The water is not cold. It is gentle, almost kind. She whispers to flowers, sings to the river, offering it her sorrow in place of words. Petals slip from her grasp, tumbling onto the surface—floating like ghosts, curling inward as though mourning her. She hums—a melody without meaning, without end.  

And when the weight grows too heavy, Ophelia lets the water take her, its arms wrapping around her in a way Hamlet never had.  

Some call it madness. Others call it grief.  

The river does not resist when she sinks.