So, I decide to walk back in with a small envelope and drop it on her desk, even though we had spoken mere moments ago. “You, okay?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Her lips press together. “Just tired.”
Tired.
That word covers so much more than sleep.
I nod, pretending to believe it. “Then promise me you’ll at least eat something today.”
Her brows lift, faint surprise breaking through the haze.
“You keeping tabs on my lunch habits again?”
“Someone has to,” I murmur, and it’s the truth.
The corner of her mouth twitches not a smile, not yet, but the ghost of one.
And that’s enough to make my chest ache in the best and worst way.
I linger a moment longer than I should, watching the war play out in her eyes the fight between strength and surrender.
Then I tap the envelope on the desk and step back.
“Take care of yourself, Penn,” I say quietly. “You deserve a little peace.”
When I turn to go, I hear her exhale shakily, like she’d been holding her breath the whole time.
I want to go back.
I want to tell her I see her. All of her. The cracks and the light and everything in between.
But I don’t.
Instead, I walk away, the sound of my boots echoing down the corridor, carrying her silence with me.
Because loving Penn has always been like this.
Standing close enough to feel her heartbeat, but too far to touch it.
As I leave the office, the sky bleeds bruised shades of red and violet smeared across the horizon, the kind of beauty that hurts to look at.
It presses against my ribs, that colour heavy, aching, like grief trying to breathe.
I stop by the small corner shop on Main, the air thick with the scent of old newspapers and sugared dust.
A small bunch of flowers catches my eyenothing fancy, just soft white daisies and baby’s breath wrapped in brown paper. They’ll do. Gracie will love them.
At the counter, I add a trashy magazine I won’t read, a Whittaker’s peanut slab, a can of Fanta, and a bag of Bluebird salt and vinegar chips. Comfort in the cheapest, loudest form.
The walk home hums quiet around me cicadas buzzing in the trees, streetlights flickering awake one by one. The air smells of rain that never quite arrived.
When I reach the garden, the fairy lights are already glowing. They loop through the jasmine vines and cherry blossoms, soft gold against the dusk.
It feels like walking into a memory I can’t wake from.
I kneel by her headstone. My baby girl. My Gracie.
The flowers tremble in my hands as I set them down.
