What Remains
1084 Words
It had been five days.
Five days since the funeral. Five days since anyone looked her in the eye without flinching. Five days since the world had been right-side up.
On the sixth morning, Britney left the house without telling anyone.
She wore Kelvin’s hoodie—faded black, sleeves too long—and stuffed her notebook into her bag. The bus stop felt foreign, like stepping into a version of the world where he had never existed. She kept her head down, ignoring the weight of strangers’ glances.
She got off near the lake.
The dock sat empty, weather-beaten and quiet. The last time they were here, Kelvin had dared her to jump in fully clothed. She had, of course. He had too. They dried off under the sun, fingers tangled, skin sticky with summer and stolen love.
Now, the air tastes different. More hollow. Less forgiving.
Britney sat at the edge of the dock, legs dangling just above the water.
“I kept thinking,” she whispered, “that if I came back here, you might be waiting.”
Wind rustled the trees behind her. A pair of ducks floated by in silence.
“I know that’s stupid.”
She pulled out her notebook. Scribbled something. Ripped the page out and folded it into a small square. Then she tucked it under a loose board where they used to leave each other notes. Her own little ritual. An offering.
She didn’t hear the footsteps until they were too close to ignore.
“Britney?”
She turned.
It was Micah—Kelvin’s old best friend, someone who had once known their silences almost as well as they knew each other.
He looked different. Sharper somehow. Or maybe it was just the shadow behind his eyes.
“I thought that was you,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
She nodded. “It’s fine.”
Micah hesitated, then sat down a few feet away.
They were quiet for a while.
“I come here too,” he said eventually. “Haven’t in a while. Not since—”
Britney waited.
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Instead, he glanced at her sideways. “You miss him like no one else does.”
She stiffened.
He added gently, “I can see it.”
She said nothing.
“He talked about you a lot, you know. More than anyone.”
Her throat tightened.
Micah looked back at the water. “I always wondered. If there was more to it. What you two had.”
Britney didn’t move. The wind picked up. The lake rippled.
Then she said, quietly, “There was everything to it.”
Micah didn't reply. He just nodded—slowly, like something heavy inside him had just been confirmed.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “But I think you should talk to someone. Someone who can carry it with you. Even if it’s not your family.”
She didn’t answer.
But when he left, she watched him go with something soft tugging at the corners of her pain. Not relief. Not comfort. Just... less alone.
That night, she pulled out her notebook again.
He’s the first person who looked at me and didn’t look away.
Maybe grief recognizes itself in the dark.
She placed the notebook beside her pillow and lay down. Her heart still ached, but now it echoed less.
Britney got home just after sunset.
The front door creaked softly as she slipped in, Kelvin’s hoodie damp from the lakeside wind. The house was dim—quiet, but not empty. She could feel it. The silence was laced with waiting.
“Where were you?”
Her mother stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, still in her work clothes. Her voice was calm. Too calm.
“I just needed air,” Britney said, not quite meeting her eyes.
“Without telling anyone?”
“I left a note.” That was a lie. She hadn't.
Her mother studied her for a long moment. Then: “You're wearing his clothes again.”
Britney’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
“He’s gone, Brit.”
“I know that.”
“Then stop living like he’s going to walk through that door any second.”
Britney’s voice came out too sharp. “You don’t get to tell me how to grieve.”
“I’m your mother. I get worried when you disappear.”
“You don’t even know what we were to each other.”
Silence fell like a dropped glass.
Her mother didn’t blink. But her face changed—just slightly. The edges softened, but the air thickened with something unspeakable.
“Don’t,” she said quietly. “Don’t go there.”
Britney felt her throat closing.
“You don’t want to know?” she asked. “Or you already do?”
Her mother looked away, jaw tight. “You’re young. You were close. You’re confused.”
“We weren’t confused.”
“You’re hurting,” her mother snapped. “And if you keep clinging to something that was never meant to last, it’s going to pull you under.”
Britney’s hands were shaking now. She tried to breathe, but it came out ragged.
“He loved me. I loved him. That’s not confusing. That’s the only thing that ever made sense.”
Her mother turned away sharply, reaching for the counter like she needed to steady herself. “I can’t do this with you right now.”
“I know,” Britney whispered. “You never could.”
She walked past her, up the stairs, heart pounding like thunder in her ears.
In her room, she didn’t cry. Not yet.
She sat at her desk, opened the notebook, and wrote:
She doesn’t want the truth. She wants quiet. Wants me folded back into the version of myself that makes sense in her world.
But I don’t fit anymore. I left the shape of myself with him.
A soft knock came at the door. It didn’t open.
Her mother’s voice, muffled: “I just want you to be okay.”
Britney said nothing. Waited for the footsteps to fade.
She turned the page and added:
She wants me to heal by forgetting. But forgetting him would be like cutting out my lungs just to stop the ache in my chest.
Then she curled into Kelvin’s hoodie and let sleep come—not restful, but deep enough to keep her from remembering for a few hours.
- Writer
