Than nodded once. He couldn’t trust his voice.
Later, alone, he stood in a jeweler’s shop, the remaining cuff link resting heavy in his palm.
“I’d like this made into a pendant,” he said. “Simple. Something that can be worn close.”
The jeweler glanced at the piece, then at Than’s face, and nodded. No questions. Just understanding.
Than closed his hand around the metal, feeling its weight, its history, its promise.
One would stay with Mei.
The other would stay with him.
It wasn’t letting go.
It was carrying her forward.
Weeks passed, marked not by the calendar but by the gray wash of days that refused to distinguish themselves. Classes resumed, but the lecture halls felt like aquariums. Than watched the professors’ mouths move, sound muffled and distant, separated from him by thick glass. He’d submitted his major projects weeks ago, mechanical tasks completed by a version of himself he barely recognized. Finals loomed, and he knew the material, but it felt like reading a language he used to speak fluently but had forgotten how to feel.
Fly was a ghost in the machine. He showed up, answered questions with a precision that was terrifying, his memory a steel trap that refused to acknowledge the hole in his chest. It looked effortless. It got under Than’s skin, a constant, itching irritation that his best friend could function so well when the world had ended.
Bridge had turned into a blade. She attended every class, posture rigid, jaw set in a line that dared anyone to cross her. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the room like she was expecting an ambush. People stepped aside without knowing why, instinctively avoiding the blast radius of her grief. She ran extra drills in the mornings, volunteering for every grunt work detail available. She was honing herself, stripping away the soft parts until only the efficient, dangerous soldier remained.
Joss missed one class, then two. When he returned, he sat in the back row, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself small enough to vanish.
Night was the worst. Than stopped sleeping. When he finally drifted off, it wasn’t rest, just a freefall into dark, cold water. The pendant lay warm against his chest, a second heartbeat he couldn't silence. He wore it under his uniform, under his shirts. Some days, the weight was an anchor, the only thing keeping him from drifting away. Other days, it was a choke chain, tightening every time he inhaled.
Fly kept moving. That was the problem. He just kept moving.
Than cornered him outside the building one evening, the air biting and sharp. Dusk bruised the sky purple around them.
“You’re moving on,” Than said. The words tasted like ash. “Like she never mattered.”
Fly stopped. Turned slowly. His eyes were rimmed red, exhaustion finally leaking through the cracks. “I’m coping. I’m doing what’s necessary because she did matter.”
Than shook his head, his chest tightening until it hurt to breathe. “That’s bullshit.”
“That’s your grief talking.” Fly exhaled, sharp and frustrated. “Do you think she would want us to stop living? It won’t bring her back. It won’t help me. If I stop—” His voice dropped. “I’ll go mad.” He stepped closer. “So you handle your shit the way you want to. I’ll handle it the only way I can.”
He stepped around Than, then stopped. His restraint cracked, anger bleeding through. “You want to quit? Quit.” His face twisted, rage colliding with sorrow. “I have to live with myself, Than. I can tell you right now. If she were here, she’d kick your ass.”
Silence slammed down between them, a crack as loud as a foundation breaking.
Than couldn’t answer. The words lodged too deep, scraping against his ribs.
For a split second, resentment flared, sharp, ugly, disloyal. You don’t get to act like this. You don’t get to keep going when she’s gone.
The thought sickened him as soon as it surfaced.
This wasn’t about Fly betraying Mei.
It was about Than losing the last thing anchoring him to the world before her death.
The realization hit hard enough to steal his breath.
If Fly kept moving, if Fly pulled away, Than didn’t know how to stand still without him.
Panic slipped in, cold and insistent. The idea of losing his best friend lodged in his chest, nearly as unbearable as losing Mei. Cutting ties would be like cutting off his own arm, but standing here, watching Fly change, hurt almost as much.
