When I open the box, my hand touches something cool and smooth, curved. Confused, I reach inside and pull it out.
A snow globe?
The little flakes of fake snow and glitter settled on the bottom glint in the light coming through the windows, and as I angle it just right, I can see what's inside. It's a picture of us, from our first Christmas together. We look so young and innocent; I feel like I've lived a lifetime since that picture was taken six years ago.
Beneath the photo of us, on the base, is an inscription.
'Til the end.
My heart sticks in my throat, and the tears are already threatening to spill over.
""Til the end?" Nick asks, clearly confused. "What does that mean?"
I debate for a moment whether or not to keep this secret. It's not anything earth-shattering or salacious, but part of me is enticed by the idea of sharing this secret… one last piece of Noah that’s only mine.
And yet, at the same time, talking about him reminds me he was real. Some days, it feels like maybe he was a dream, something that was too perfect to be real.
"Our first date." I laugh, and the sound is choked through the tears as I sniffle. "We were supposed to go to the movies, but I got sick and my mom wouldn't let me go out because it was too cold and she didn't want me to catch pneumonia or something. He came over, anyway. Mom wasn't happy, at first, but when she saw he brought soup, she caved and let him stay in the living room with me. We watched Twilight, and then the second one started playing and I asked how long he was going to stay. He said 'til the end'. But then the next one played, and I asked again, and he said 'til the end'."
After that, it became our thing.
How long are you going to stay? Til the end.
How long will you love me? Til the end.
We never thought too much about whenthe endwould come. It never seemed like it would, not on our endless movie nights, not our relationship, not in life. I've wondered off and on for the last year, in the moments where the grief is heavier than normal, whether he did itbecausehe stopped loving me. There's really never been any explanation, and as beautiful as it is, the snow globe doesn't exactly clear anything up.
The smooth metal of the knob beneath the base catches against my finger, and I twist it once, just enough to catch a few seconds of a melody I immediately recognize as Christina Perri's A Thousand Years.
I close my eyes against the tears, deciding not to wind it up again. I really don't want to do this in front of Nick; I wish I'd opened it in private.
"A snow globe." Nick nods. "Cute, I guess. I thought he was going to propose or something."
"What?" I laugh through a sniffle, wiping beneath my eyes. "Why would you think that?"
Nick shrugs, sheepish. "You were together forever and he acted like that was some super important gift. Of course, I figured the box was too big for a ring, but..." He shrugs again. "I didn't expect a snow globe."
Of course, Nick doesn't understand the sentiment or why it's so valuable to me.
When I don't say anything in response, he only watches me for a minute, like he's trying to understand what he clearly can't.
"Should we go in?" I ask, tipping my head toward the church, stark against the landscape of the inky night, the towering evergreens behind it.
"Sure." Nick agrees. "The others are waiting."
I don't know why I do it, but I take the snow globe with me, tucking it under my arm as we exit the car. It's weird, and I'm sure everyone will want to know why I brought it, but something about bringing it to the last place that Noah was alive feels appropriate. I may even leave it here, on the steps where he took his own life.
I dig my toes into my boots as we walk, the snow compressing beneath each step as I tuck my head and force myself forward.
I haven't been here since the funeral, when I had a breakdown that made Nick's father recommend my mother have me committed to the psychiatric unit at the neighboring town's hospital.
Mom didn't take his advice, but she has made me see a therapist off and on since then. The nosy bastard keeps delvinginto stuff that isn't relevant to the fact that I saw my boyfriend's brain matter and blood spattered all around the church like someone had been careless with art supplies. It was surreal, something I was never meant to see. But when I got the text that something had happened, I didn't wait for answers. Icouldn'twait.
They'd draped a sheet over him so by the time I pushed my way past the first officer who tried to stop me from gaining entry, I didn't see him. Just the sheet, sticky with blood that dripped down the steps, and one of his boots peeking out from beneath. It's absurd, but my first thought was how he always liked his feet out from beneath the covers, and I was convinced he was still alive. I stayed convinced, part of me refusing to believe any of it was real, until the funeral, when it all came crashing down on me and I shattered.
I refuse to break this time. He left me, but I have to keep going.
I don't get to give up because too many people rely on me: mom, the twins, Cici. So, I keep going, walking into the church and slipping my hat off, shaking the snow off the bottom of my curls. When I turn to get a glance at Nick, he's watching me curiously. It's not the first time today that I've caught him doing that, but in the warmth of the church, the gentle glow of the Christmas lights strung round us, it looks softer.
