Then she stands and grabs her jacket from the chair. “We’re gonna head out. We said we’d stop by Becca’s for her birthday thing.”
Blakely points a finger at me as she rises. “You text if you need anything.”
I nod once. “I will.”
Jade squeezes Sloane’s shoulder gently. “We’ll come back tomorrow, okay?”
Sloane gives a small nod, eyes on the blanket.
“Night, Slo,” Blakely says, softer than usual.
“Night,” Sloane murmurs.
They walk toward the door, but Jade pauses beside me.
Her voice drops, quiet enough that Sloane won’t hear. “She hasn’t showered.”
My stomach tightens.
Blakely’s gaze meets mine—serious, protective. “She keeps saying she will, and then she just…doesn’t.”
I nod once. “I’ve got it.”
Jade hesitates, then says, like she’s choosing her words carefully, “She lets you in more than anyone right now.”
The weight of that lands hard.
Because it’s not a compliment.
It’s a responsibility.
They leave quietly, the front door clicking shut behind them.
The house exhales.
Sloane doesn’t move.
She’s still staring at the TV, but her eyes are glassy, unfocused, like she’s trying to leave her body without actually dying.
I sit on the edge of the coffee table, close but not crowding.
“Do you want the TV off?” I ask.
Sloane’s eyes blink slowly. “Doesn’t matter.”
I reach for the remote anyway and mute it. The sudden absence of sound makes the room feel larger—emptier—like we can hear the grief moving around inside the walls.
Sloane swallows.
Her throat works like it’s painful.
“I hate this,” she whispers.
I don’t ask what she means.
Because it’s everything.
The house. The quiet. The after. The way people leave and life keeps moving even when hers doesn’t.
