In the way he smiles so fucking much.
Like if he stops smiling, he might disappear. A fierceprotectiveness rises in me, sharp and urgent, a need to shield Levi from whatever made him think he had to carry this alone.
“Levi, I’m so sorry,” I say, and I mean it.
“Brent was young,” he whispers. “It was sudden. I remember sitting in your funeral home and everything felt…unreal. My parents were there but empty, faded versions of themselves. They stopped living, stopped seeing me, and I…just…” His throat bobs as he swallows. “I tried to be the good son. The one they still had. Something to love. But it just made me invisible. Even to myself.”
Because I understand the way grief changes people. The way it gnaws away at you until you’re unrecognizable. The way loss makes you desperate to hold on to the people who remain.
“Is that why you…” I hesitate, unsure how to phrase it.
Levi opens his eyes, blinking at me. “Put on the happy face?” He attempts a small smile, failing spectacularly. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
I don’t know what to say but I know what I can do. I start to stand, but something catches my eye…the small, cluttered surface of Levi’s nightstand.
A graveyard of half-finished beverages wedged between his plants. Wine, cold coffee, a can of seltzer stacked on a book.
It guts me more than it should.
I stand, smoothing out my slacks, and grab the glasses. “Let me get you some water.”
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move.
I step into the small kitchen and reach for a clean glass. My hands are steady, mind focused on the simple task. I fill the glass. Turn to bring it back.
And then I see it.
A photograph taped to the fridge.
It’s Levi, years younger, grinning wide, an arm slung around aboy with the same fiery red hair, the same mischievous glint in his eyes.
My breath catches, a memory slamming into me like a tidal wave. I know that face. His name may have faded over time, but I never forget a face.
I remember preparing his tiny body. I remember the service. I vaguely remember a boy sitting in the front row, shoulders shaking, hands clasped so tightly it looked like if he let go, he’d shatter. I remember the family’s grief.
What I didn’t remember were his parents. Not clearly. Faces blur the way the living sometimes do when grief consumes everything else. I remember the weight of their sorrow more than their features. The way their pain filled every corner of the room until it was all I could see. I never connected them to the couple I sat across from at dinner.
Not until now.
Because this photograph doesn’t let me look away. This photograph ties it all together.
Because that’s what I did. That’s what I do. I help, and then I retreat.
But not this time. Not with Levi.
I take a steadying breath, my fingers tightening around the glass, and then I go back to Levi. He hasn’t moved from where I left him, but something about him looks…smaller. Like saying the words out loud took what little strength he had left. I settle onto the bed beside him, finding a space for the water on the crowded nightstand. I don’t speak, don’t force anything. I just wait.
Levi shifts slightly, his hand searching for mine. “It’s stupid,” he mutters. “It’s been years. I should be able to…” He exhales sharply, a frustrated sound. “I shouldn’t still come apart likethis.”
I tilt my head. “Like what?”
His throat bobs again. “Like it just happened yesterday. Like Ican’t breathe when I think of Brent. Like if I start crying, I’ll never stop.”
His voice cracks on the last word and something inside me cracks right along with it.
Grief doesn’t play by the rules of time. It doesn’t fade just because people say it should. It lingers. Festers. And it reshapes the person left behind, slipping into the slivers of who they used to be.
I reach for him before I fully process the decision, my hand resting against the curve of his back once he’s fully wrapped in my arms. He’s too warm. Like the grief is burning through him, eating him alive.
