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It wasn’t Will’s voice shouting in my dreams that woke me, it was Miguel’s. I blinked hard a few times, forcing myself to return to the real world as Miguel said my name again, more softly this time.
I rolled onto my back, swiping strands of sticky, sweaty hair from my face, and pushed the comforter away from me. Cool air hit me immediately, providing instant relief and I drew in a deep breath.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded without looking in Miguel’s direction. I wasn’t ready yet; my mind was still in the graveyard. Still searching. I rubbed my eyes, and after a couple of minutes, my surroundings became clear again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“It’s fine. You scared me, but it’s okay. What happened?”
“Dreams.”
Even when I slept, in my dreams the pain followed me, making me toss and turn as I saw Will, all the while knowing it wasn’t real; that when I opened my eyes he’d be gone again and some days I wished more than anything that I wouldn’t wake up so I could hold on to him forever.
I didn’t want to die. I just… I was tired of living half a life.
My breathing steadied and I shuffled up the bed into a sitting position.
“You wanna talk about it?”
I shook my head. “What’s the point? Doesn’t change anything.”
“How do you know? Have you tried?”
“I talked to Leah about it. All that happens is I think about it more and the dreams keep coming.”
“Are they about Will?”
The prickling of hot tears behind my eyeballs sent my heart rate soaring again. Why wouldn’t the tears stop? Why were they always on the surface, ready to rain down my cheeks at a moment’s notice? I clenched my fists, trying to push the emotion back down.
“Freya?”
“Yes!” I snapped. “They’re about Will! They’re always about Will!”
I hated how harsh my voice sounded, and how quick I was to snap. I hated it, but I didn’t stop it.
With a curt nod, Miguel stood and left the room. I let out a snarl of frustration, throwing one of my pillows across the room where it hit my dresser and knocked my favourite framed photo of Will and me onto the floor with a light thud. My feet kicked, untangling themselves from the sheets and I crawled across the bed, pressing my stomach against the mattress as I reached over the end to pick the photo up. As I put the frame back in its rightful place, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The light from the hallway cast an eerie glow on the room and I looked… haunted. Those awful dark shadows under my eyes, and my skin so pale it was almost transparent. God, what was it going to take to find my way back to being me?
Still looking in the mirror, I saw Miguel re-enter the room carrying a glass of water. Without a word, he placed the glass on the dresser then sat on the edge of my bed.
“Thank you.” My words came out as a whisper.
I shuffled forwards to take a few sips of the drink. The liquid trickled down my throat and I felt my body awakening a little more as the water re-hydrated my system.
“What can I do, Freya?” Miguel asked, his voice almost as quiet as mine. “How can I help you?”
That was the thing. The thing nobody could grasp. Help is what you give somebody when there’s an actual problem with a real solution. Grief isn’t that way. Grief isn’t a problem – at least not in the usual sense of the word – and a solution doesn’t exist. If there was one single way for my friends to help me, didn’t he think I’d have asked by now? Did he think I wanted to stay in this place where nothing ever changed and my heart remained shattered? Because honestly, if there was some magic glue to piece it back together, I’d have taken it in a second.
“There’s nothing, Miguel. I told you. Nothing.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
I shrugged. “Up to you.”
His weight shifted from the bed and I placed my empty glass back on the dresser. As I turned onto my side, Miguel kicked my bedroom door, making it slam shut.
“Fuck you, Freya! I’m sick of this!”
