The funeral lady hands all of us flowers, allowing one final moment before they cover him up for good. I stare down at it as my parents say they’re goodbyes, inspecting the pretty white petals. They’re silky and smooth, the picture of perfection… Jurian would hate them.
He loves—lovedthe imperfections in life. Flowers with wonky petals and broken stems, when people’s smiles weren’t perfect but genuine, books that were cracked and browned from being read too many times. He thought imperfections were beautiful.
Maybe that’s why he loved me so much.
I step forward when my parents back away. Tears roll down their cheeks, unashamed of their grief. My handsshake as I bend down and throw the flower onto his casket, “you and me until the end,” I whisper.
His voice fills my head, almost like he’s by my side,‘the end is you and me.’
What a load of bullshit.
november
one
SASHA
The wind blows the notes off the coffee table, and I scramble to grab them before they all float away.
I don’t know why I keep them, they’re silly pieces of paper that probably don’t mean anything… and yet here I am, reading them for what feels like the millionth time.
I grasp them between my fingers, holding onto them tight like they’re a lifeline, and stare at the words that a stranger left for me.
They started just after Jurian died, appearing in my books after I left them for a moment, or on the seats I usually sit in for class. I never see anyone lingering or watching me as I open them, but I can feel that they know I got them.
How they knew I needed them, I’ll never know, but for the first time in my life, I feel seen. This person sees the deepest parts of me, understands me better than my own brother did, better than my parents do.
It’s kind of ironic that the one time I wish I could disappearis when someone finally notices me. It’s like the universe is laughing at me, like I’m wrapped up in some big cosmic joke.
Honestly, it’s like throwing salt in the wound.
Everyone always talks about the grief after losing someone you care about, but no one ever talks about the guilt of surviving, of knowing that you’re the reason why someone is dead.
I wonder if my mystery person would still be writing me letters if they knew what I’ve done.
Silence fills the apartment in a way that suffocates me. The kind of silence that makes your skin crawl, the kind that makes you want to pull out your hair.
I’ve never liked the quiet. When you’ve lived your entire life waiting for people to notice you, silence becomes your worst enemy. You’d think I’d be used to it by now… I’m not.
I lost my brother.
Now I’ve lost my best friend.
How could he do that to her? How could he do that tome?
My blood starts to boil, hatred and anger and— andsadnesscoil around my gut until the tears start to fall again. Tears for the last person I had in my corner, for the last person I thought loved me.
Nathan Thomas is—was. Nathan Thomaswasmy best friend. Not in the way people say someone is their best friend, but they secretly have feelings for one another, or they talk every once in a while but don’t really know the other person at all.
No, Nathan knows every part of me.
He knows I always tie my right shoe before my left because when I tie my left shoe first, it’s never tight enough.He knows I like pasta with nothing but butter because when I was ten, I heard spiders sometimes get mashed in with tomatoes when they make the sauce. He knows I can only fall asleep if I’m lying on my right side, and that I can’t eat celery because I choked on it one time a couple of years ago. He knows that I have trouble sleeping at night when it’s too quiet, and the stories behind each of my tattoos.
He sat with me for over half of them, holding my hand. Not because it hurt, but because he knewwhyI was getting them.
When we first moved into our childhood home, and a little brown haired boy with dark green eyes knocked on our door, I was convinced he would want to play with my brother.
I was wrong.
