Kelvin’s POV
The scent of lilies used to comfort me.
Now, they make me sick.
The morning sun pierced through my curtains in slanted golden blades, bright, warm, and entirely unwelcome. It bled across my room like spilled honey, touching everything I didn’t want touched.
Today wasn’t a day for light.
Today was Diana Jones’ memorial.
The Kelvin from four years ago would've been in her grave before the sun even rose. He would've carried fresh lilies, red ones, her favorite, their petals trembling in his shaking hands. He’d have cried until his lungs gave out, arranging the flowers with obsessive care, as if every perfect placement might rewrite the past. Might bring her back.
But that Kelvin was long gone.
Now, I am sitting at the edge of my bed like someone half-alive, staring at the
