Nothing is right without you…
The nave smells of old wood and lilies—too many lilies—sweet and cloying, settling at the back of my throat with every inhale. The sky is the wrong color. Not blue. Not even properly gray. Even the clouds are low and swollen. They’re pressing down on the church roof, and if rain pours from them, it is going to crack what little composure I have left. I take a deep breath—sucking in more of the sweet scent of death—as I try desperately to hold it together.
In a futile effort, I tilt my head back and stare through the stained-glass windows. Reds, blues, and golds fracture the light, spilling across the pews in broken shapes, but all I see is Rosie. Her unguarded smile, the kind that lit up every room she walked through. The honesty in her eyes. And her stupid, perfect little nose scrunch when she pretended to be annoyed with me, like she couldn’t quite commit to it because she loved metoo much.
I should be able to do this. This crowd is tiny compared to the sold-out arenas I normally talk to. I should be able to stand here in front of these people—our friends, my band, my manager, and a hundred other acquaintances—who brushed past her life and carry her name in different ways. I should be able to say something meaningful. Something that honors the glorious person she was. Something that doesn’t feel like ash in my mouth. Something worthy of Rosie. But my throat is locked tight; afraid of what might escape. My hands feel numb, heavy, and useless—like they belong to someone else.
I step up to the pulpit. The wood is smooth and cold beneath my fingers. I wrap them around it, trying to stop my hands from shaking as I look down at the paper before me. Her eulogy. Words I wrote at three in the morning, sitting on the edge of our bed, staring at the empty space where she should’ve been. I tried to fold my grief into something presentable. Now, every word looks wrong. Every line is wrong. Every sentence is a lie, because none of it comes close to holding the weight of how I feel.
I clear my throat, trying to sound strong—trying to sound like someone who can survive this—but it comes out as a croak. Someone shifts in their seat, and a quiet cough echoes from the front rows, daring me to look up from the paper between my hands.I can’t.If I look, I’ll shatter completely.
“Rosie… My dreamer…” I wobble on her name; the words are already twisting in my mouth. “She was the light of the world. Not just mine…”
My voice shakes so badly, I have to pause.
“She… she could make anyone laugh. She… she made me laugh. Every single day. And…” I swallow, my chest tightening and lungs refusing to fill properly. “And I—” My breath catches, sharp and painful. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to go on without her.”
My vision blurs as tears pool hot behind my eyes. I blink hard, but it doesn’t help. I stop. I can’t go on, and the following silence is deafening. My hands slip down the sides of the pulpit, my shoulders caving inward as if my body finally understands what my mind has been denying. I stare at the polished floor, at the reflection of my shoes, and all I see is the memory of her hand in mine last week.
I want to hit something, scream, anything that makes this hurt real instead of the hollow space inside my heart. Whatever makes it feel like the world didn’t just rip her away from me.Gone.In a split second of screeching tires, shattered glass, and someone else’s careless decision.Rosie… gone.
“She loved music,” I manage. “She loved dancing in the kitchen while I played guitar. She loved bad coffee, road trips with the windows down, and late-night visits to the worst taco truck in town.” My voice fractures. “She loved me.”Loved, notlovesanymore…“And she loved life,” I croak out in a whisper. “And I… I… I…”
I choke on my words, and they die before they’re born, clogging my throat until it hurts to swallow. Behind me, the minister shifts as whispers ripple through the pews. Gripping the pulpit, I squeeze until my knuckles blanch white. I close my eyes and let myself remember her—not the polished versions or the photos people will post with captions about loss and light—therealRosie.
The way her palm was always warm against mine. How she hummed while she cooked, even when she burned dinner and pretended she’d meant to. The way she laughed so hard she cried, and how she hated when I wiped away her tears because it made her laugh harder. The weight of her head, heavy on my shoulder, as she leaned into me on long drives.
The memories hit all at once, crashing into me like a wave with no warning. My chest aches so badly, I almost think my heart is tearing itself out of me—just like my figurative one was ripped from my life.
I’m stuck; falling into a hole I can’t climb out of. The world keeps moving around me, but I’m trapped in a moment that ended days ago. In a life that suddenly doesn’t make sense. Everyone else is nodding and murmuring quietly, trying to console each other. Meanwhile, I want to scream. I want the world to stop and understand what it feels like to lose the center of your soul.
“Rosie,” I whisper, barely louder than a breath. “You were my heart. My reason. You were the place I came home to.” Tears spill freely down my face, hot and unstoppable. “Youweremy home.” I open my eyes to the blurry sea of faces in the congregation and try again. They’re watching me with stares full of grief and understanding. And I realize that no words, no eulogy, no speech could ever be enough.
I have nothing more to say, because nothing will bring her too-short life justice. A silent unease falls over the church, and I step down from the pulpit without finishing on legs that barely hold me upright. I grab the back of the pew to catch my balance and take a seat. The minister says something polite and ceremonial to end the funeral, but it fades into static somewhere between my ears and brain. Myworld has narrowed to one truth: Rosie existed. And now she doesn’t.
Outside, the wind cuts sharp and cold through the chapel doors. People file past in black coats, with hushed voices, offering condolences that slide right off me. I don’t want their comfort.I want her.I want her nose scrunch. I want the way she smiled while dancing barefoot in the living room when she didn’t know I was watching.
I want our life. I want our future.
The parking lot is damp, the asphalt darkened by recent rain. Struggling to break through the clouds, the sun is pale and weak. An unseasonable chill sinks into my bones, and I welcome it. At least it’s something I can feel.
I flip my lighter open and closed in my pocket, the soft click grounding me. My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my pocket to find a text from my agent.
CARTER
Call me.
After shoving my phone back into my pocket, I pull my jacket tighter around me and start walking. I don’t know where I’m going.I don’t care.The funeral is over, and apparently, I’m supposed to feel something like closure. Instead, I feel hollow—like I’m wearing a life that no longer fits.
I think about the first time we met, when I was playing at the little dive bar on Demonbreun Street, sweaty and nervous. She was in the back, watching from across the crowded bar. And when our eyes met, something clicked. Something that made me think, for the first time, thatmaybe love wasn’t just a song. Maybe it was real. Maybe it could survive the world with her by my side.
I thought love was enough.
I was wrong.
Love doesn’t survive everything.
I stop at my car, gripping the hood as dizziness washes over me. I close my eyes and imagine her voice telling me to breathe, to stop being dramatic,to live.
