The silence stretches. Lengthens. Becomes something tangible that presses against my ribs. People shift in their seats. Someone coughs quietly. The weight of their attention presses down. The collective awareness that something is happening, something unspoken but undeniable.
I'm staring. I know I'm staring.
Can't stop. Can't look away. Can't do anything except stand here and feel the full force of what it means to see her again.
Mom's concerned glance cuts into my peripheral vision from the front row. Nick leaning forward slightly, brow furrowed. The question forming in every mind around me—what's happening, why did he stop, who is she—but I can't seem to break the connection.
But I can't make my mouth work or my brain reconnect to language or any of the professional composure I'm supposed to be maintaining right now.
She does something then—small, almost unbearable in its familiarity.
Her hand lifts slightly, fingers brushing against her collarbone in a gesture I remember so vividly it hurts.
One she used to make when she was nervous or overwhelmed.
And then she smiles.
Small. Sad. The kind of smile that saysI see youandthis hurtsandI wasn't ready for this eitherall at once.
It's unconscious, automatic, and so fundamentally her that something in my chest cracks wide open.
This is the girl I loved so completely it nearly destroyed me.
And I'm looking at her the same way I always have.
Like she is magic. Because that's what she is.
What she's always been.
Someone shifts beside me—Mom, her hand finding mine, squeezing gently. The touch grounds me just enough to remember where I am. What I'm supposed to be doing. I force myself to blink. To breathe. To break eye contact even though it feels like tearing away from gravity itself.
"Sorry," I swallow hard and find the thread of what I was saying.
My voice steadies slowly, muscle memory carrying me through. But her presence is acute now. Undeniable. Like a frequency I can't stop tuning into because she's rewriting every frequency in my body just by existing in the same room.
"Alfie taught me things I didn't know I needed to learn," I continue, forcing focus. "How to be patient with broken things. How to sit in silence without needing to fill it. How to show up for people even when you're carrying your own weight."
I pause, the truth settling.
"He taught me that grief doesn't make you weak. That asking for help isn't failure. That sometimes the bravest thing you can do is just... stay. Even when every instinct tells you to run."
Nora's listening. I can feel her even without looking. Feel the weight of her presence like gravity.
“One of the last things he told me, which is something I've been thinking about a lot lately." My voice catches slightly, and I let it. "He said, 'The things worth having are the things worth fighting for, even when the fight scares you.'"
The words land differently now. Heavy with meaning I didn't intend but can't avoid. I look down at my hands, then back up at the faces watching me. At Nick, who's crying quietly. At Kat, who's smiling through tears.
"He was a great man. And I'm grateful—so grateful—that he chose to stick around for people like me."
I step back from the podium. The minister nods,understanding that I'm done. I walk back to my seat on shaking legs, my heart beating too fast, too hard, acutely aware of Nora somewhere behind me in the chapel.
I’m aware that seven years just became nothing.
Aware that I'm not over her.
Not even fucking close.
CHAPTER 12
