I had meant to call up my relative yesterday night, to ask for some cash so that I can travel back to my hometown; I was convinced that the city was cursed.

I came to the big city with my guitar and my five-year-old daughter in hopes of a big break and a better life for my little girl.

“You’re gonna rule the world someday,” I used to tell her.

I even aptly named her Raina, derived from the Spanish word for Queen.

That was two years ago.

My big break was just an upgrade from store clerk to food delivery. It did not matter how odd the job was as everything I did was to ensure that Raina had a roof above her head and food on her plate. We were celebrating her turning seven yesterday as I took her around her favourite places in the city.

The accident happened in the split second that I let go off her hand to take a call.

The driver was intoxicated and filthy rich because he did not bother to stop his car.

There was so much blood as I held her head. It stained the new dress and my clothes as I clutched her lifeless body.

The same night, I held my phone in one hand and a bottle of pills in the other. I only had to take two to end this pain.

That's when I heard her voice.

I was going to hang up, having dialled incorrectly, but she insisted I keep talking.

She said she was waiting for an adventure to happen that night, and that this call could be the beginning of one.

I told her I did not have any intention to entertain her.

"You sound sad," she spoke.

"I am sad."

It was the craziest thing but I ended up pouring out every detail of my story to her in the next fifteen minutes. It felt strangely cathartic.

"What was your daughter's name?" She asked,

"Raina."

"What a coincidence, mine too!"

I let out a hysterical laugh, I did not know why, but even if she was lying to make me feel better for that moment, it worked.

"My baby girl was my everything," my voice came out in sobs. Clutching the bottle of pills I spoke, "There is so much pain inside of me, I don't think I can live with it."

"Then don't," Raina stated.

"When you share your pain with others, you wouldn't have to handle the sorrow all by yourself."

We didn't speak much after that and I hung up.

I went to work as normal today, delivering over 20 different orders to various people.

As I reached home the bottle of pills was now empty.

I had crushed two of them into every one of those orders that I delivered the entire day. Tomorrow, several families would know the sorrow of losing a loved one.

Raina was right, sharing my pain did make me feel a little less lonely.