Just…a small loosening.
I nod once.
Jade claps her hands. “Perfect. Couch. Now.”
They herd me to the living room like I’m fragile glass.
They pile blankets around me. Shove a pillow behind my back. Put a spoon in my hand like it’s a weapon. They pick amovie I’ve seen a hundred times, something mindless with familiar jokes and predictable endings.
Jade sits on one side of me. Blakely on the other.
The TV flickers to life.
The opening credits roll.
Jade starts talking about something—practice, a stupid ref call from last month, how Blakely has the worst taste in men. Blakely argues back. They bicker like it’s oxygen.
I hear the words.
But they slide past me.
Because my brain isn’t here.
It’s still at the cemetery.
It’s still on the polished wood of the casket.
It’s still on Pops’s hands—those hands that used to grip my shoulders and tell me I was capable, tell me I was strong, tell me I was loved.
My chest tightens.
The room blurs.
Jade nudges my shoulder gently. “You with us?”
I blink.
“Yeah,” I lie.
She doesn’t call me on it.
Instead, she leans her head against my shoulder like she used to after wins when we were sweaty and laughing and alive.
Blakely links her arm through mine on the other side.
And there I am, sandwiched between my best friends, a spoon in my hand, a movie playing on the screen, and sunlight coming through the window like the world hasn’t changed.
I stare at the TV.
The characters are laughing.
Living.
Saying lines that mean nothing.
My eyes burn.
But I don’t cry.
