The June That United Us

The thing about grief is that it never knocks—it just lets itself in and redecorates your entire soul.* Zoya hadn't opened the second drawer of the dresser since June 14th. It was still shut, still gripping her sister's last poem. Most likely crumpled. Perhaps smudged with mascara, or dried tears, or just silence. It was Sunday morning, but her curtains remained closed. Light was not wanted here. In the kitchen, her mother banged a pan too forcefully, and her father's cough rang out. The house creaked now, but not in a way that seemed living. Rather, the echo of something struggling too hard to make itself seem like it hadn't withered a little, too. Zoya wrapped her blanket tighter. Not for chill, but for memory. June had always been warm, in every possible way. Her sister's laugh used to stream through the hallway like summer wind chimes. Now the hallway was simply. a hallway. Quiet, dull, and expecting someone to remember how it once sounded. Her phone vibrated. Unread messages. A couple of them from Simran. One from Maya. She looked at the screen, stupidly, then clapped it shut again. Her friends were making an effort, and that made her feel like screaming more than if they weren't. "Zoya?" Her mother's voice was tentative, as if testing the word. Zoya didn't respond. Her mother didn't pressure her. That was the way things were now—everyone walked on eggshells around one another like loss was some beast that could wake up and get angry if annoyed. She finally sat up. Not out of choice, but because the silence had begun to scream. Her hair was tangled. Her wrists still bore the friendship bracelet her sister had tied the previous year. She ought to cut it off. But then again, what if that was the last thing that still held a memory? Downstairs, the kitchen reeked of tea that had been boiled too long. Her father sat by the window, newspaper unfolded but unopened, and her mother stirred something she didn't feel like eating. Nobody said "good morning." They didn't go to the trouble of words like that anymore. I’m not going today,” Zoya muttered. “Where?” her mom asked, not really hearing. “To the therapist.” Her father turned a page too loudly. Her mother didn’t look up. “You should.” “I won’t.” She grabbed a glass of water and went back upstairs. She hated therapy. She hated how everyone expected her to talk about June, as if digging it up would turn the grave into something pretty. She shut her door and unlocked her phone once more. This time, she did not read the messages. Instead, she opened the Notes app, where she had begun writing her own poems. She typed: *Grief has a bedroom in my chest, Wakes me up, won't let me rest. Her name was June, but now she's dust— And all I have is broken trust.* Before she was able to write further, her screen went dark. Battery dead. But something within her was just starting to awaken. The blood on Aarav's hands had long dried, but it hadn't ceased screaming. It wasn't actual anymore—just remembrance. But the image of Arjun's broken form on the road kept replaying as if it had acquired a permanent projector in his head. He hadn't ridden the bike that night. But he was meant to. That was the worst. "If I hadn't said I was tired…" He whispered it out loud, standing in the center of his room, staring at the helmet on his desk as if it were some twisted prank. His mother was humming something from an old movie she couldn't recall downstairs. She hummed when she was afraid. His father was already gone to work, acting like everything was okay again. It wasn't. Aarav's hand went to the crumpled up piece of paper in his drawer—the one Arjun had slipped him weeks ago. A stupid drawing of the two of them on motorbikes, with the caption *"To stupid decisions and full tanks!"* He would have smiled, once. Now it only made his throat ache. "Breakfast, beta!" his mother called. He simply stayed put. There were mornings Aarav would wake up expecting a text from Arjun, expecting their inside jokes to pop up on his phone screen once more. Now, all he had left were screenshots of some text and half-filled replies addressed to a boy who simply no longer existed. When he finally made his way down, his mother looked up from her phone and her eyes went searching across his face, trying to find something to fix. "Are you okay?" she asked, with her voice already braced for the lie. "Yeah." She laid a plate of toast in front of him. He didn't go for it. He stared at it as if it might disappear if he stopped looking. "You should go out today," she said. "It's been… weeks." There was no answer from him. Going out meant walking down the streets they used to ride along. That particular turn near the old bookstore, the one they raced through. Everything still breathed Arjun. "I'll go later," he said. His mother's nod was one of relief mixed with exhaustion. "Good." He never meant it. Instead, he went back upstairs and opened Arjun's very last voice note. It was all just laughter. Nothing more. Just laughter. Then he opened the window. All of a sudden, the breeze that came over felt strange on the face-having felt, maybe, contrived kindness. In the city, a ghost was the pretext for Zoya to sit on her bed and write. And a boy named Aarav stared at the great sky wondering whether that one more ghost-was watching him back. Not knowing it yet, but the very worst June in their lives was about to unite them.