Chapter Text
I remember the sound of laughter before I remember the fire. That’s the part that’s been stuck in my head–not the smoke, not the chaos, but the easy, stupid laughter across the field on a late afternoon.
The grass was high, the kind that caught your ankles and clung to your socks. The sun sat low behind the goal post, painting everything in gold and dust. William had stripped down to his undershirt because he “ran hotter than hell,” and Ganji kept teasing him that it was just an excuse to show off. They were both grinning like idiots.
I threw the ball hard, watching it spin through the air and smack against William’s chest. He let out a grunt, stumbled back, and then laughed. “Nice arm, Subedar!” he shouted, rubbing the spot where it hit.
“Maybe if you actually caught it, you wouldn’t be complaining,” I called back, smirking.
Ganji jogged up beside him, his sleeves rolled high, skin glistening with sweat. “He’s just mad because you’ve got a better aim than he does!”
Before William could respond, a voice drifted from behind us.
“Maybe all three of you should stop acting like wild dogs before you knock each other’s teeth out.”
We turned to see Eli walking toward us, a gentle smile on his face and four bottles of chilled cider in his hands. His hair was wind-tossed, his shirt half untucked–he never could keep it together for long. But his eyes, sharp and kind, caught the sunlight.
He held one bottle out to me first.
“You looked like you were dying out here,” he said. “Figured you could use a drink before you start sweating out your soul.”
I took it with a small nod, trying not to smile too obviously. “You calling me weak, Clark?”
“I’m calling you human,” he replied, that calm little grin still on his face. “Though if the shoe fits…”
William and Ganji both burst out laughing. I rolled my eyes and took a swig from the bottle, pretending to focus on the horizon. That was Eli–always the one to bring balance to our idiotic endeavors. He never raised his voice, never picked sides, never bragged. He had this strange way of making everyone around him softer without even trying. The type who’d patch your scraped knees before asking how you got hurt.
I remember thinking he didn’t belong at Ivory Tower–not because he wasn’t smart enough, but because the place was too sharp for him. Too cruel. He was all heart in a world that fed on ambition.
The sun was dipping lower, turning the sky orange. Eli sat down in the grass between us, setting the remaining bottles beside him. “You know,” he said, turning his head toward William. “For a detective club, you spend an awful lot of time throwing balls instead of solving mysteries.” William grinned. “You’re just jealous because you can’t throw on straight to save your life.”
“True,” Eli said, laughing lightly. “But at least I can read the air better than any of you.”
Ganji groaned. “There he goes again with his prophet talk!”
Eli shrugged, smiling faintly. “Maybe. Or maybe I just know when the storm’s coming.”
We all laughed.
God, if only we’d known.
I didn’t know it then–how that would be one of the last times I saw him without the weight of pain behind his eyes. Back when he could still see the world clearly. Back when he could still look right at me.
And now.
Now he can’t see things at all.
Eli also had this owl–Brooke Rose. A brown-feather, fat little thing that always perched on his shoulder like she had claimed him long ago. It was almost comical at first, seeing him walk around campus with a bird like that, but eventually everyone just got used to it. Brooke was part of him, as much as his soft-spoken tone and patient smile were.
That afternoon, Brooke was with him too. The creature ruffled her feathers, puffing herself up before hopping off Eli’s shoulder and landing beside us. Ganji reached out, laughing. “You sure this thing doesn’t bite?”
Eli chuckled. “Only if she thinks you deserve it.”
The owl tilted her head at Ganji, unblinking. Everyone laughed again. I didn’t. I was too busy watching the way Eli smiled. He had that look, the kind that made you think he was somewhere far away even when he was right beside you. And maybe that’s what drew me to him in the first place–that distance. That quiet mystery he carried in his chest.
“She follows me everywhere,” Eli said softly, stroking Brooke’s feathers. “Guess she thinks I’ll get myself lost if she’s not around.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “You’ve got the sense of direction of a blind bat.”
He laughed at that. “Then maybe I was meant to have her,” he said. “A blind man with a seeing owl. It’s a good balance, don’t you think?”
There was a flicker in his voice, a strange glint behind his words–like he already knew something was coming. I brushed it off back then, thinking he was just being poetic. Eli loved to sound like a prophet when he could.
Brooke let out a low hoot, stretching her wings before leaping back onto Eli’s arm. The late light painted them both in gold–the boy and his bird, framed by a fire-colored sky. I remember thinking they looked untouchable, like something sacred that didn’t belong to this world.
And for a split second, I wanted to tell him that.
That I envied the way the world seemed softer around him.
That I–
I didn’t.
I just looked away.
“What are you thinking about, Naib?” he asked suddenly, voice gentle.
I blinked. “W-wha-nothing, why?”
“You’re staring at the horizon like it’s going to give you answers.”
“Maybe I’m just enjoying the view.”
He smiled–slow, knowing. “Maybe.”
The wind rustled the grass. Brooke gave another soft hoot and tucked her head under Eli’s chin. I can still see that image as clear as the day it happened. It’s what makes it worse no–knowing that the owl didn’t make it out of the fire. When I heard that, I was hoping it was just a rumor. Because I knew what that meant for him. Eli didn’t just lose a pet. He lost a part of himself–the one that saw for him long before his eyes began to fail.
And I can’t stop thinking about how he said it, “A blind man with a seeing owl.”
Now he’s just the first half of that sentence.
–
The infirmary smelled like antiseptic and rain. That sharp, sterile kind of clean that makes your throat tighten. Emily met me at the door. She looked exhausted, her hair coming undone from its bun, her sleeves rolled up and speckled with iodine. When she saw me, her expression slightly softened. “You shouldn’t stay long,” she said quietly. “He still needs to rest. The burns were…severe.”
I didn’t ask how bad. I could tell by her eyes–they had that sheen doctors get when they’ve seen too much. She led me through the narrow hall, her shoes whispering against the tile. The curtains were drawn around each cot like tiny worlds sealed by thin fabric. When we reached the last one, she paused.
“He’s conscious now,” she murmured. “Just….be gentle, Naib.”
I nodded. My hand brushed against the curtain, and for a moment I hesitated. Afraid of what I might see. Then I pulled it back.
And there he was.
ElI sat propped up against the pillows, his skin pale against the white sheets. His arms, his neck, his face–all wrapped in gauze. The bandages around his eyes were thick and clean, but they made his face look strangely hollow, like he’d been carved out of marble and left unfinished. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I’d braced myself for the sight, but still, something inside me cracked. The room was quiet except for the faint beep of the heart monitor and the slow drag of his breathing.
He tilted his head slightly, that familiar motion of trying to see without seeing.
Then, softly–
“Naib?”
My throat tightened. I swallowed before I answered. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s me.”
He smiled, faintly. “You always walk too heavily, like you’re marching in here,” he chucked, voice hoars, “I could tell it was you before you spoke.”
That almost made me laugh, but I couldn’t find the sound. I stepped closer to the bed, careful not to touch him. My fingers hovered above the sheets, uncertain where they belonged. “Eli…” I started, but the words withered before they formed. What do you say to someone who’s been half-burned out of existence?
He turned his head toward me, the bandages where his eyes should be catching the light. “It’s strange,” he murmured. “Everything feels… bright. Even though I can’t see it anymore.”
My chest ached at that. I wanted to tell him to stop talking like that, to stop sounding so calm, so accepting. But I didn’t. Instead, I sat down beside him and stared at my hands–at the thin, angry scars from years of fighting. “I’m sorry,” I said finally. It was all I could manage.
“You didn’t start the fire, Naib,” he said softly. “You don’t have to apologize to me, apologies won’t change what happened.”
I wanted to believe him. But sitting there and looking at him bandaged like a ghost of the person he’d been, I couldn’t. Because part of me did feel guilty. For having my sight. For having skin that could still feel the sunlight outside.
After what felt like years of silence, he finally broke it with a laugh. “You should see the other guy,” he murmured, voice rough but still trying to sound like himself. “I’m lucky compared to him.” He chuckled softly.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. My jaw locked instead. He was trying–that’s what killed me most. Even sitting here, swaddled in gauze, his fingers trembling when he reached for the cup on his nightstand–he was trying to make me comfortable. Trying to make me feel better.
“Don’t joke like that,” I murmured.
“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head. “It’s either laugh or cry, isn’t it?”
I bit down on the inside of my cheek. His tone was so matter-of-fact, so light, that for a heartbeat I almost forgot what had happened. But then the light hit the edge of the bandages again, and the illusion broke. He smiled faintly, fingertips tracing the blanket over his legs. “Emily says I’ll heal fine. Not all of it, but…enough to walk. Enough to still find my way around.”
“You shouldn’t have to find your way around,” I said before I could stop myself. My voice came out sharper than I meant. “You shouldn’t–”
“-be alive?” he interrupted, and there was something heavy in the question, though he said it gently. “Naib, I know how bad it was. I heard enough in the hallways before you even walked in.” I looked away. The window was cracked open, and a breeze fluttered the curtains. It smelled faintly of smoke–or maybe that was just my imagination refusing to let it go. “You always carried the world like a weight,” Eli continued. “Even before the fire.”
I clenched my fists. I hated that he could still read me like that–blind or not. He let out a small, tired laugh. “You’re quiet. That’s how I know you’re upset,” he teased softly. “Come on, say something. Tell me I look terrible. Or that my jokes are worse than usual.”
I stared at him, at the faint curve of his mouth beneath all that ruin, and something inside me twisted. I wanted to shout at him. To tell him to stop pretending this was fine, to stop smiling like that…But I couldn’t do that to him–not now.
So I swallowed the lump in my throat and said quietly, “You don’t look terrible, you look…fine.”
He laughed again. “That’s a lie.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’ve never been good at honesty when it hurts.”
There was a pause–long enough that I thought he’d fallen asleep. Then, softly: “Naib?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re still here, right?”
My chest tightened.
“Yeah,” I repeated. “I’m not going anywhere.”
For a while, neither of us spoke. The light shifted on the wall–slow and honey-colored, the kind that used to warm the marble floors of the courtyard before the fire blackened them. I wanted to keep sitting in that silence, pretend everything was fine. Pretend we were still back in those days where Eli brought his owl to class and everyone rolled their eyes. But the words clawed their way out anyway.
“...Eli,” I said, hesitating. “Where’s Brooke?”
He turned his head toward me. There was a beat of silence before he answered, his tone eerily steady. “She didn’t make it,” he said softly. “My sweet Rose is gone.”
My throat went dry. I’d expected tears. A tremble in his voice. Something. But Eli just sat there, hands resting neatly in his lap, the faintest smile still ghosting across his mouth. “You…” I started, then stopped. “You sound calm.”
He gave a soft, low hum of agreement.
“I am calm, I think. Devastated, yes. But calm.” He tilted his head back, bandaged eyes turned toward the ceiling as if he could see it. “I can’t cry even if I wanted to. Emily says my tear ducts are damaged, so I can’t cry anymore.”
Something in my chest twisted hard.
“Eli…” I whispered. “Are you okay?”
He smiled faintly–that same calm, unbearable serenity. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe this is what acceptance feels like. She was…nature’s creature, Naib. She wasn’t meant to live forever. Maybe it was just her time to fly into the dark.”
His words made me angry in a way I couldn’t name. Angry at how peaceful he sounded. At how easily he spoke of death, like it was some gentle passage instead of that ugly, blackened thing that had taken everything from us. But I didn’t say that, I just stared at him–this fragile, broken figure with sunlight brushing against the edges of his bandages–and thought about how the fire stole his sight but left his voice untouched.
He was still Eli. Still soft, still steady. Still maddeningly kind.
And I hated how small I felt sitting next to him.
How weak.
He must’ve sensed my silence, the way I went still beside him. Eli always had a strange instinct for moods like he could read the air around people instead of their faces. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he said softly. “Really, Naib. I’ll be fine.”
His voice carried that gentle patience that made my teeth clench. I didn’t believe him and he knew I didn’t. “I know you care,” he added after a pause, tone lighter now. “You always pretend you don’t but you do. You’re not very good at hiding it.” He smiled faintly, turning his face toward me. “You think I never noticed how you linger after classes? Or how you look at me when you think I can’t see?”
The words hit me harder than they should have. A hot flush crept up my neck before I could stop it. “I—That’s not–” I started, but the rest caught in my throat.
He chuckled. “Relax,” he said. “I’m blind now, remember? I can’t tell if you’re blushing.”
That did it. Something inside me snapped–not out of anger at him, but at everything. At the fire. At the world. At this unbearable calm he carried like a shield. “Stop joking about that!” I replied sharply.
The words came out louder than I meant. Eli flinched, startled by the tone, and I immediately hated myself for it. I dragged a hand down my face, exhaling hard. “Sorry. I just–”
“It’s alright,” he said quietly, his voice steady again. Too steady. “You don’t have to apologize.”
But I could hear the faint tremor under it, like a ripple in still water. He tried to smile again, but this time it faltered halfway. “Humor’s just how I…cope with this, Naib,” he murmured. “If I stop laughing, I’ll start breaking. And I can’t afford to break yet.”
I stared at him and realized that his peace wasn’t peace at all. It was surrender. “I wish you wouldn’t act like this is fine,” I said quietly. “Like you’re already…okay with it.”
He turned his head toward me again, lips curing in a small, sad, smile. “Because if I’m not okay, you won’t either.”
And that–single sentence–lodged itself in my chest like a blade. He must’ve felt the tension settle between us–a thick, suffocating kind of silence. Then, suddenly, Eli lifted one hand from the blanket, reaching forward with an awkward kind of determination. “Naib,” he said. “Wait–come here a second.” I didn’t move at first, watching him fumble blindly through the air. His fingers swept the space in front of him, missing by inches, almost catching my sleeve before losing it again.
“Hold on,” he muttered under his breath. “I know you’re right there–stop moving.”
“I’m not moving,” I said, despite myself.
“You are, I can feel it,” he said, his tone dipping into mock irritation that somehow managed to be both pitiful and funny.
A small laugh escaped me before I could stop it. That only made him more stubborn. Finally, after one last wild sweep, his hand landed clumsily on my arm. His touch was light–tentative, as though he were afraid I might vanish if he pressed too hard. “There,” he said softly. “See? I knew I would find you.”
I let out a slow breath, something between a sigh and a laugh. “Yeah. Congratulations.”
He smiled faintly, his thumb brushing the fabric of my sleeve. “Stay a little longer?”
I hesitated. He must’ve sensed it, because he added quickly, “I won’t ask for much. Just… talk to me please. Tell me about the others. Nobody else comes to visit and it gets lonely in here.”
I sat down again, the chair creaking softly beneath me. He tilted his head toward the sound, a small relief softening his face. “How’s Tracy?” he asked. “I miss hearing her jokes.” I glanced at the floor. Word spread fast around campus and everybody knew her and Luca had split. I won’t forget the saddened look on her face when she told us about it. “She’s…okay,” I said, though the word felt hollow. “Well shes–her and Luca they ended things. But she seems to be doing…fine.”
Eli frowned. “Oh, that must be rough. I hope she’s okay.”
“What about William? He used to bring me food during late study sessions, usually terrible, burnt bread.” I chuckled under my breath. “He’s fine. Still trying to lift everyone’s spirits, literally and otherwise. I think he carries his grief in his arms instead of his chest.”
Eli’s lips curved. “And Ganji?”
I hesitated a beat. “He’s…not the same.”
“His burns?” Eli asked quietly.
“Yeah,” I said. “He doesn’t talk about them much. But when he looks at the field, it’s like he’s somewhere else. Somewhere still on fire.” The room grew quiet again, but not unbearably so this time. Eli leaned back against his pillow, still holding onto my sleeve like it anchored him to the world. I thought maybe he was drifting off, that our conversation had finally lulled him into sleep. But then, softly–too softly–he spoke again.
“What about Edgar?”
The question came so simply it took me a moment to register it.
“He hasn’t visited,” Eli continued, his voice carrying that small lilt of uncertainty. “Neither of them have–not Edgar or Norton. I keep thinking maybe I missed them while I was asleep.” He tilted his head slightly, waiting. “Did they say anything?” he asked. “Are they… angry with me for some reason? I told Edgar I’d let him paint me eventually, I knew he really wanted to but I was too busy at the time.”
I opened my mouth–but nothing came out.
I didn’t know how to tell him. How was I supposed to tell him? How do you tell someone who’s already lost half their world that the rest of it burned away too?
He shifted slightly, the bandages brushing against his cheek.
“Naib?”
His voice was so small. He sounded like he was afraid of the answer but still needed to hear it. I stared at the floor. I wanted to lie. To tell him Edgar was recovering somewhere else, or that Norton was busy helping clean things up. But the words lodged in my throat, too heavy, too cruel to twist into false hope.
“I haven’t seen them,” I said quietly.
It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.
“Oh,” he said after a pause—just one syllable, fragile and breaking at the edges. “I thought maybe they’d come together. Edgar always said he couldn’t stand hospitals.” He gave a weak laugh at his own words, but it came out thin, broken. “I… I just thought they’d at least send a note.”
He sounded so hopeful. So achingly alive in that hope. I swallowed hard and forced my voice to stay steady. “They would’ve, Eli. You know how things are right now–the school’s still recovering. Everyone’s still…finding their footing.”
He nodded slowly, accepting the answer without suspicion. That made it worse. “You’re probably right,” he murmured. “I just miss hearing Edgar complain about everything. It’s too quiet without his sarcasm.
I couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. Inside, my thoughts spiraled–raw, furious, pleading with something unseen. I wanted to scream at the ceiling, at the world, at whatever gods let him sit there smiling about ghosts.
Because he didn’t know.
And I couldn’t be the one to tell him the truth.
Meanwhile Eli kept talking softly, like he was trying to fill the room with sound so I wouldn’t hear how broken the silence really was. “You know,” he said after a pause, “I keep thinking…maybe there’s a reason I survived.”
I looked up at him. The sunlight caught the edges of the bandages over his eyes, turning them gold for a moment. “Maybe I was meant to stay behind,” he went on. “To remember those who died. Someone has to, right? Someone has to keep their names alive.”
My throat tightened.
“Brooke used to land on Edgar’s shoulder all the time,” Eli said with a faint smile, “He’d pretend to hate it, but he’d always give her crumbs anyways. She liked him.” He laughed weakly, then sighed–a soft, breathless sound that barely reached me. “I just hope….he makes a speedy recovery, same with the others as well. And I’ll keep living for the ones who didn’t make it.”
There it was–that calm, radiant kindness that made everyone love him. That same infuriating purity that made me want to tear the walls apart. How could he talk about life so gently, when his own was hanging by a thread? How could he smile when he couldn’t even see anymore?
I felt my chest cave in. My pulse thudded so hard it made my vision blur. He couldn’t see me, but somehow it still felt like he could feel me unraveling.
“Naib,” he said softly, “promise me something.”
I couldn’t answer.
“Promise me you’ll keep moving forward, even if it hurts Don’t let what happened destroy you the way it almost destroyed me.”
He didn’t even know he was talking about himself. About the others. He thought he was comforting me—but he was breaking me open without realizing it.
I stood up fast, the chair scraping against the floor. Eli flinched slightly at the noise. “Naib?” he said, startled. “Did I…say something wrong?”
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice through the lump in my throat. “No. You didn’t.”
My voice cracked halfway through, betraying me. I turned before he could hear the rest. He called my name again, gentler this time–but I was already halfway out the curtain, already choking on the air outside the infirmary. The hallway was cold. Too bright. Too quiet. And as I walked, every step felt like an echo of the same hollow truth–that the person I’d care about most was still alive, but somehow, I’d already lost him.
Outside, the wind bit sharper than I expected. It whistled through the cracks of the courtyard’s stone path, carrying the faint smell of ash that still lingered no matter how many weeks had passed. I leaned against one of the cold marble pillars and tried to breathe, but every inhale felt too shallow, like my lungs were refusing to cooperate.
Eli’s voice still echoed in my head–soft, patient, maddeningly kind. “Promise me you’ll keep moving forward.”
How in God’s name could I just ‘move forward’ when every step just dragged me back to the same memories? His owl, his eyes, the sound of the fire tearing through the night–I can’t just erase something like that. I couldn’t just erase him.
And yet he was the one lying in that bed, barely stitched together, talking about hope like it was a living thing. While I—I was just the coward who ran. I raked a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath. Maybe I should’ve stayed longer. Maybe I should’ve told him. Maybe I–
“Watch where you’re going asshole!”
The words came out before I could stop them. My shoulder had slammed into someone rounding the corner. Papers went flying everywhere–white sheets scattered across the stone steps. The guy turned around, rubbing his arms with an irritated tired sigh. “Oh, great. Thanks for that.”
It was Norton Campbell–sharp-tongued, always looking like he hadn’t slept in days. He crouched to gather the mess of papers before the wind could carry them off.
I scowled. “What the hell are you doing, Campbell?”
He didn’t even look up. “What does it look like I’m doing?” He gestured at the flyers. “I’m handing these out to people who actually stop to help instead of plowing into me.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “Tch, it’s because you’re too damn large. You’re blocking the path.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, dusting one off, “the path isn’t exactly crowded these days, is it?”
That shut me up for a second. He straightened, arms full of papers again. The expression on his face wasn’t angry, just tired. Drained. Like something in him had burned out long before the fire ever started. He must’ve noticed me staring, because he gave a half-shrug. “The detective club’s hosting a meeting,” he said, tone flatter now. “A grief meeting. For anyone who…you know. Lost someone. Or something.”
I blinked. “A grief meeting?”
He nodded. “We figured people needed a place to talk. The teachers aren’t really doing anything, and the administration is too busy doing damage control from the media. So it’s us, I guess.”
I looked at the flyers in his hands–the neat print, the hopeful words, the club’s seal stamped at the bottom. They felt almost insulting by their optimism. “Who’s gonna show up to that?” I scoffed.
Norton looked down for a moment, thumb brushing the edge of the top flyer. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it’s better than doing nothing.” Norton adjusted the stack of flyers against his chest, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “You should come, Naib,” he said, voice even but with a weight behind it. “It might help.”
I barked out a humorless laugh. “Help?” I repeated, my tone biting. “You think sitting in a damn circle talking about how shitty we feel is going to change anything?”
Norton blinked once but didn’t flinch. “That’s not what I–”
“No, really,” I pressed, taking a step closer. “You think I need that? That I’m too weak to handle shit on my own? You don’t know a thing about me, Campbell.”
He finally looked up and the calmness in his eyes wasn’t meekness. It was exhaustion sharpened into something cold. “Don’t I?” he said, his voice quieter now, almost dangerous. “You think you’re the only one hurting?”
I froze.
He dropped the flyers at his side, paper scattering across the courtyard stones like snow. “You talk about loss like you’ve got a monopoly on it,” he said. “You think being angry makes you better than everyone else but it doesn’t. But hey, at least the person you care about is still alive.” Norton took a slow breath, his expression unreadable. “The person I loved burned alive in that fire, Naib. The one I was supposed to spend my life with died scared and alone.” His throat tightened on the last word, but he kept going. “So don’t tell me what’s useless or what doesn’t help. I’m trying my best to hold everyone together while I’m rotting from the inside.”
The courtyard went silent except for the wind. One of the flyers drifted past between us. I didn’t know what to say. The anger drained from me so fast it left something hollow in its place. I stared at the ground, my jaw clenched, trying to keep my face from giving away. Norton sighed, his voice soft now. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed at the world. You don’t know where to put your anger and neither do I.” He hesitated, then added, “But pushing your feelings down and trying not to look ‘weak’ in front of people does more harm than good. Trust me.” He crouched again, gathering the flyers like nothing had happened, though his hands trembled faintly. “Take care of yourself, Naib.”
And with that, he walked off.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
The clock on the dorm wall ticked in steady, merciless beats. Every sound in that room grated against me: the creak of the bed frame, the rustle of the wind through the half-open window, even my own breathing.
I thought about my interaction with Norton earlier–infact-it played in my head like a broken CD. I wanted to fire back at him, to tell him he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about–but now that I was lying here in the dark, I knew he was right.
I was angry.
And I didn’t even know at who.
Maybe at Eli for being so calm, for speaking about pain like it was a passing cloud. Maybe at myself for caring so damn much. Or maybe at the world for letting someone like him get burned for no reason at all. I turned over again, staring up at the ceiling. My knuckles ached from how tightly I’d clenched them earlier. Eli had lost everything and yet somehow he was still able to smile, still able to tell me not to worry. He was alive and he was fine. Or at least, he said he was.
So why wasn’t I?
I’d spent so long trying to be the strong one–the one who didn’t fall apart, the one who never let a tear fall, the one who held everything steady when others broke. But lately, all that steadiness felt like a dam about to burst. Norton’s words had cracked something open. The silence in the room grew heavier. I sat up, rubbing a hand over my face, my mind caught between wanting to scream and wanting to disappear. My gaze drifted to my desk–to the small, crumpled flyer I’d picked up from the courtyard earlier.
It sat there beneath the lamplight, the ink faintly smudged the words barely visible: “IVORY TOWER DETECTIVE CLUB PRESENTS: A MEETING FOR HEALING.”
I stared at it for a long time.
Part of me wanted to tear it in half, to prove to myself I didn’t need it. But another part whispered that maybe I did. Not because I believed it would fix anything. But because I didn’t know what else to do anymore.
I leaned back against the wall and exhaled, watching the faint flicker of the candle by my bedside. “You’d probably tell me to go,” I muttered under my breath. “Wouldn’t you, Eli?” The flame wavered, throwing a trembling shadow across the wall.
And that’s when my mind began to wander.
I used to meet him behind the old greenhouse after class. He’d be sitting on the stone bench with his notebook, his owl perched proudly beside him, eyes half-lidded in contentment. He always looked so peaceful. It was infuriating. “Naib,” he’d say, smiling without looking up. “You’re late again.”
And I’d grumble something like, “You sound like my mother,” even though I never really minded being scolded by him.
Sometimes we wouldn’t talk at all. He’d jot down all the types of birds he’d seen while I tossed pebbles into the pond, watching the ripples expand and fade. Other times, he’d ramble about some philosophy book or how he believed everything in life was connected–people, animals, time itself.
I used to tease him for being so spiritual all the time.
“You sound like a poet.”
He’d smile and reply, “Maybe the world could use more poetry.”
I never said it out loud, but I liked listening to him talk. The way he could find beauty in things no one else noticed–a moth’s wing, the reflection of the moon in a puddle, the way silence could say what words couldn’t. That was Eli. He saw things I couldn’t. Maybe that’s why the fire felt so cruel–it took away the very thing he used to see the world with.
There were days when I almost told him how I felt. Days when his laughter was too bright, when his hand brushed mine by accident, when my chest felt too tight to pretend anymore. But I never did. I told myself that those kinds of feelings are stupid–that an ex mercenary doesn’t fall in love with someone like him. That feelings were just distractions. But looking back now, I think I was just scared. Because when you love someone that much, you start to believe they’re untouchable. Eternal. And when the world proves you wrong–you never really recover from it.
And sometimes, when I think about Eli, I wonder if what I feel even has a name to begin with.
It isn’t the kind of love that asks for anything back. It’s quieter than that–buried, unspoken, something I carry around like a secret I never meant to keep. It creeps into everything: the way I listen for his voice when I pass the infirmary, the way my chest tightens when I think about him.
Back before the tragedy, I used to catch glimpses of Edgar and Norton together in the courtyard, or sitting by the library steps. Norton would pretend not to care, but you could tell from the way he looked at him. The way his voice softened, even when he was teasing. Edgar had that effect on people–all light and pride and impossible beauty. I used to think Norton and I weren’t that different. Both stubborn. Both hiding too much behind a hard, masculine front. But the difference was, he had the courage to reach out. For him, that kind of thing–the tenderness, the charm–came easy to him.
Me? I could never let my guard down long enough.
Eli once told me I had a soldier's heart–strong, steady, dependable. I remember laughing and saying. “You make that sound like a compliment.” He said it was. But now, I wonder if it really was, or if that was his own subtle way of telling me that I was too afraid to let anyone in.
Maybe he knew. Maybe he always knew.
Because sometimes when I’d catch him looking at me, it felt like he saw right through it all. Through the walls, through the silence, straight into the part of me I didn’t want anyone to find.
And still, he smiled.
That’s the thing that hurts the most now. Not that he’s changed, or that he’s broken, but that he’s still himself–still gentle, still kind, still putting other people’s feelings before his own. He’s the same exact Eli I’ve always known.
I can’t even bring myself to face him without feeling like I might fall apart.
So maybe Norton was right. Maybe I don’t have to carry this alone. But even if I did show up to that meeting, I don’t know what I’d say.
That I’m mourning over somebody who’s still alive?
That every time I see him smile, it feels like both a miracle and a punishment?
No–
There aren’t words for that kind of love.
Just silence.
And the memory of a hand I never held.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
Love, relationships–they were never meant for people like me. Some men are built for softness; they’re made for poetry and slow afternoons and the kind of quiet that feels safe. I’m not one of them. I was made for running drills, keeping my guard up, fighting battles that no one sees. I'm the wall people lean on, not the person they fall in love with.
Maybe that’s why Eli’s kindness stings so much. Because every time he smiles at me, I can almost see the life that I will never have.
By the next day. I decided to go to the meeting. It was late in the night and the halls were already empty. The faint smell of wax and old wood filled the corridor, the kind that’s been scrubbed clean too many times, like the school’s trying to erase the scent of smoke.
By the time I reached the east wing, the lamps were low, the shadows long. The door to the new detective club was cracked open and light spilled out in a thin golden line. The air inside the clubroom was thick with something like grief, I guess. It clung to the walls, the floor, the people sitting in a loose circle of mismatched chairs.
I hesitated in the doorway for a moment. Norton was there, of course. His arms crossed, posture rigid, like the only thing keeping him standing was sheer will. Tracy sat beside Emma, her best friend, both of them hunched over cups of tea that had probably gone cold a while ago. William was near the window, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but too polite to leave.
Across from them, Patricia sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Fiona beside her. Patricia’s eyes were tired but soft–the kind of tiredness that comes from crying until there’s nothing left. Fiona reached over every so often to squeeze her hand, whispering something too quiet for me to hear.
Then there was Andrew. He was super religious. He was murmuring a quiet prayer under his breath, fingers brushing the cross that hung from his neck. I didn’t know whether it comforted him or kept him chained to the pain. Maybe both. And on the far side of the room, Victor and Murro sat close together. Victor’s eyes were red as he wrote out loud about the animals that didn’t make it. Birds, foxes, even the stray cats that used to hang around the school’s back steps. Murro nodded along, his expression unreadable, his grief heavy in a quieter way–the kind that comes from losing things that can’t speak for themselves.
Norton was the first to notice me. He didn’t say anything right away, just gave me a small nod. I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. Every head turned for a moment, curious, cautious. I could feel the weight of their eyes–everyone looking for a place to put their pain, everyone hoping someone else had it worse.
I cleared my throat. “Sorry I’m late.”
Norton motioned to an empty chair near the back, and I sat down. The wooden seat creaked under my weight, the sound sharp in the quiet room. For a while, no one spoke. The only sound was the ticking of a lock on the wall and the faint rustle of clothing as people shifted, searching for the courage to say something.
Finally, Norton broke the silence. His voice was steady, but his hands were shaking. “Tonight’s not about speeches,” he said. “It’s about remembering. Or… trying to.” He looked down, fingers brushing a folded piece of paper on the table beside him–probably notes he didn’t have the heart to read. “If anyone wants to share, you can.”
No one moved.
Then Tracy spoke, her voice small but clear. “I still see it sometimes. The fire. The sky wasn’t even black–it was orange. Like the world was ending.” Emma reached over and took her hand, nodding. “None of it feels real anymore, it's like a bad dream, like, I keep thinking I’ll wake up and everything is back to normal. That I’ll hear Lorenz yelling at us to get back to class or scolding us for being late.”
Patricia spoke next, her voice brittle. “It’s strange. I still write him letters. Edgar, I mean. Like he’ll answer it if I just find the right words.”
Norton leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, his voice breaking the silence. “You know,” he started, “Edgar used to say the world was a painting we’d never finish.” Everyone looked up at him. His tone was faint. “He said that every brushstroke we make–every mistake, every accident–adds to it. That we don’t get to see the whole thing until we’re gone. I used to think it was just one of his metaphors, but now..” Norton exhaled, a trembling breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “Now I think maybe he was trying to tell us something.
For a second, no one spoke–the silence sitting heavy and reverent around his words. I caught Norton’s expression; there was something almost gentle in it, a kind of quiet understanding that made me uncomfortable. He looked like he’d aged a decade in a month.
Then his eyes found mine. “Naib,” he said softly, “you’ve been quiet. You want to share something?”
The air in the room shifted–all those eyes again, waiting.
I swallowed, hard.
Share something.
What was I supposed to say?
That I was jealous of Edgar for being gone? That I was angry that Eli was still here but not really the same person anymore? That I didn’t even know what grief was supposed to like anymore–sadness, anger, guilt? It all blurred together into something that felt more like static than emotion.
“I don’t even know why I’m here,” I blurted out.
The air suddenly felt tighter. I could hear the faint ticking of the lock above Norton’s shoulder, the scratch of someone’s sleeve against fabric. “I wasn’t friends with anyone who died,” I said, my voice sharper than I meant it to be. “I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t even near the damn fire. I just–” I stopped, the words bunching up in my throat, bitter and hot. “I just feel angry. All the time.”
Norton’s expression softened a little, but I couldn’t stand it–that look of quiet sympathy. I wasn’t saying this for pity. “I see everyone else crying, trying to move on, trying to be…better,” I went on, the words tumbling out faster now. ‘But me? I just–” I clenched my fists in my lap. “I feel this….this rage that won’t go away. It’s not for the ones who died. It’s for the ones who didn’t.”
Tracy’s brows knit together, but she didn’t interrupt.
“It’s for Eli,” I said finally, the name cracking out of me like it hurt to say it. “He’s alive, but it’s like part of him isn’t. He’s got these bandages over his eyes, these burns on his skin, and he still smiles like nothing’s wrong. Like it’s okay. And I can’t stand it.” My throat felt raw. “I can’t stand that he’s fine with it. That he lost his owl, his sight, everything–and he still finds a way to make a joke out of it. It’s like he’s already accepted, and I’m the one falling apart for him.”
Before I could say anything else, Patricia let out a short, humorless laugh. The sound sliced right through the quiet. “Wow,” she said, her voice trembling somewhere between disbelief and anger. “You’r really sitting here and complaining that the person you love is still alive?”
The words hit hard–harder than I wanted them to. Patricia’s gaze lingered on me, eyes flashing like embers. “Do you have any idea how insulting that sounds?” she continued, her tone rising. “There are people in this room who would give anything–anything–just to have one more minute with the ones they last, and you’re angry because your friend survived?”
“Patricia–” Norton started softly, but she cut him off.
“No. Let me say this.” Her voice shook, but she didn’t back down. “You should be grateful he’s still here to talk, to fight with, to…to hold onto. You have a chance most of us don’t.” I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. The words stung, but part of me knew she wasn’t wrong. Still, there was something cruel in the way she said it.
Patricia’s jaw trembled. Her eyes were glassy now, the anger giving way to something more fragile. “I’d give anything to be angry at Edgar again,” she hissed. “To argue about stupid things, to listen to him talk about his paintings like they were the whole damn world.” She blinked hard, a tear slipping down her cheek. “So don’t talk to me about grieving someone who’s still alive, Naib. You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and realize they’re gone for good.”
Norton straightened in his chair, his voice calm but firm. “Patricia, that’s enough,” he said quietly. “We’re here to listen, not to–”
But I cut him off before he could finish. The words just spilled out, sharp and unfiltered. “No, let her talk,” I snapped. “Since she clearly has a lot to say.”
Patricia’s head snapped toward me, her eyes sharp and wet. “I’m saying you should be grateful. He’s still alive for fuck sake!”
“Yeah,” I said coldly, “breathing–but half-alive. You call that living?”
“At least you can touch him,” she shot back, voice cracking. “You can still hear him, talk to him, fight with him.”
I laughed–humorless. “You think that makes it easier? Watching him smile like he’s fine when he’s not? Watching him stumble around in the dark, pretending that everything’s okay so people like you don’t pity him?”
She stepped forward, trembling with anger. “People like me?”
“Yeah. The kind who think grief is some kind of competition,” I spat. “Who thinks because you lost someone, you get to be the expert on pain. Guess what, Patricia–you don’t know shit, you have a damn monopoly on suffering.”
Her lip trembled, then curled. “You arrogant prick. You talk like you’ve lost something, but you haven’t. You’re angry because you can’t stand that he’s stronger than you. That he’s handling it better than you ever could. Let’s face it Naib you’re whole tough guy front is an act and everybody knows it–everybody knows how much of a pussy you are.”
The air in the room had gone sour–thick with anger and something uglier beneath it. I wanted to strangle her at that moment, curse her out and tell her how repulsive her words are. My chest was tight, my throat raw. I could feel Norton’s eyes on me, but I didn’t meet them. “I’m done,” I muttered, my voice rough but steady enough to sound final.
Patricia scoffed. “Good,” she spat. “Go, then.”
I stood, my chair screeching against the floor, the sound jagged, like everything inside me. My heart pounded so loud it drowned out the faint tick of the clock, the shallow breaths in the room. I didn’t wait for anyone to stop me this time. I turned and pushed through the door, the echo of it slamming behind me breaking whatever fragile peace was left in that room.
The hallway outside was empty, silent except for the faint hum of the old radiator and the pulse still drumming in my ears. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my pants and kept walking, until–
“Naib!”
Norton’s voice echoed off the plastered walls. His footsteps followed–steady, deliberate, never rushed. I didn’t slow down. “Don’t,” I muttered. “Just don’t.”
But of course, he didn’t listen. He never does.
He caught up easily, slipping into step beside me. His tone wasn’t angry–it was calm in that frustrating, composed way that made me feel worse. “Hey,” he said softly. “You don’t have to run off every time someone says something that hurts.”
I scoffed. “Yeah? Maybe I just don’t want to be preached at by people who think they know better.”
He exhaled through his nose, patient. “Nobody in there knows better. They’re just…trying to make sense of something senseless. You’re not the only one who’s hurting.”
“I’m not hurting,” I shot back too fast.
Norton raised a brow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
That hit a nerve. I stopped walking, turning on him. “You don’t get it,” I said, my voice low and shaking. “Eli’s alive. He’s breathing. But he’s–he’s not the same. And I can’t stand seeing him like that.” Norton didn’t flinch. His expression softened, just slightly. “That’s still grief, Naib. You’re grieving who he was. It doesn’t make you ungrateful–it just makes you human.”
I looked away, jaw tight. “That doesn’t help.”
“It’s not supposed to help,” Norton replied, quieter now. “It’s supposed to remind you that it’s okay. Everyone grieves in their own way. Even for someone who’s still alive. I’m here.”
It wasn’t what he said–it was the way he said it. Soft. Knowing. Like he pitied me. “I don’t need anyone,” I shot back, jaw tight. He didn’t flinch, “That’s where you’re wrong, I can see what this is doing to you.”
That tone–calm, pitying–set something off in me. “You don’t see anything!” I snapped, shoving him back. He stumbled but didn’t hit the ground. “Just because you lost somebody doesn’t mean you’re an expert on grief.”
“I never claimed I was.” Norton’s voice stayed maddeningly even, but his eyes–they looked tired. “I just think you’re scared to admit you’re broken too.”
That stopped me cold.
“Shut up.” I hissed.
He didn’t. “You walk around like you’re made of steel dude. But I can tell you’re cracking underneath it. You’re angry because it’s the only thing that doesn’t make you feel weak.”
“Shut up!” I barked again, pushing him harder this time. But he caught my wrists before I could shove him again. His grip was strong–steady in a way that made me feel smaller than I already was. He leaned in close, voice trembling just a little now.
“When was the last time you cried?” he asked.
I froze. The words hit me harder than the shove ever could’ve.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I spat, but my voice came out hoarse.
“You heard me,” he said quietly. “When was the last time you let yourself cry?”
My throat clenched. I yanked my hands, but he didn’t let go. His eyes searched mine like he was looking for something buried. “You need to cry, man,” he whispered, his voice cracking for the first time. “You have to. Because if you don’t… it’ll eat you alive. It’ll turn everything you love into something you can’t recognize anymore.”
“Don’t–”
“Holding it in doesn't make you strong,” Norton went on, his voice trembling but fierce. “Strength isn’t silence. It’s letting yourself feel. You think I didn’t try to hold it in? You think I didn’t pretend I was fine when Edgar died? I wanted to die with him.” He finally let go of me, his fingers brushing against mine before falling away.
I stood there, every muscle locked, my chest burning like I’d been punched.
Norton took a slow breath. “You don’t have to be unbreakable,” he said, softer now. “You’re allowed to fall apart, it’s the human thing to do.”
We just stood there.
No words.
No movement.
Just the ringing silence of everything Norton had said settling between us like dust after a storm. My throat felt tight–too tight. My chest burned as if I’d been running for miles, but I hadn’t moved an inch. Norton’s eyes stayed on me, steady and unflinching, though I could tell he was scared too. Scared for me.
I wanted to say something, anything–to shove him again, to tell him to stop looking at me like that. But instead, I just…broke. The sound came out strangled. A breath caught halfway between a gasp and a sob. My hands shot up to my mouth like I couldn’t stop it, like I could hide it–but the tears came anyway. Hot. Messy. Relentless.
Norton didn’t move for a moment. I saw his face soften, that flicker of shock before it melted into something else–something unbearably kind. He just stepped forward. Didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just wrapped his arms around me and pulled me against him.
And for the first time since the fire–since everything–I didn’t fight it.
I sank into the warmth of him, trembling so hard my teeth ached. The sobs came in waves now, violent and shattering, like all the things I’d buried were clawing their way out at once. My fingers gripped at the back of his shirt until I could barely feel them. “It’s okay,” Norton whispered against my ear. His voice was low, rough, but gentle in a way I didn’t think he was capable of. “It’s going to be fine, dude. You’re going to be fine.”
After a while, the storm inside me started to slow. My sobs softened into uneven breaths, and the ache in my chest settled into something dull. Norton’s arms loosened around me, but he didn’t step back right away. “Naib,” he said quietly. “You need to go see him.”
I blinked, my voice breaking. “Eli?”
He nodded. “Yeah. He needs you.”
I swallowed hard, staring at the ground. “I can’t. You don’t understand. Every time I see him like that, it feels like I’m watching him die all over again. He used to be–” I stopped, unable to finish. “I know,” Norton said. “But he’s still here. And he needs someone who remembers who he was before all this…someone who isn’t afraid to look at him.”
I shocked my head, a bitter laugh slipping out. “You think I’m strong enough for that?”
“No one’s strong enough for it,” he said. “Not at first.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “When Edgar died, I didn’t leave my dorm for days. Everyone told me to move on, but I couldn’t even stand the thought of seeing his things. Then one day I realized–grief doesn’t want you to move on. It just wants you to stay with what’s left until you can breathe again.”
His words settled over me like the faint warmth of sunlight through smoke.
“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” he continued. “But don’t run from him, Naib. Be there. Even if you don’t have the right words. Sometimes, showing up is enough.” I stared at him for a long time, the tears drying cold against my cheeks. The anger that had burned in me for so long felt small now. He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before stepping back. “Go see him,” he said again. “He deserves that much. And so do you.”
I nodded faintly, my throat too tight for words. Norton turned to leave, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall. And I stood there alone, staring at the faint light through the high windows–thinking maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to stop running from what hurt.
The next morning I took Norton’s advice.
It was startlingly bright outside–the kind of day that made it hard to believe tragedy could ever touch a place like Ivory Tower. The sunlight poured through the trees, scattering fractured lights across the grass. The air was crisp, sweet with the scent of wisteria that climbed the courtyard walls.
It almost felt wrong that the world could still look so beautiful.
I stopped by the florist at the edge of campus–the same one Eli liked because the owner always kept a bowl of seeds outside for the birds. I bought a small bouquet of white chrysanthemums and blue forget-me-nots, their colors soft and trembling in the morning light. They reminded me of the sky after rain.
When I arrived at the infirmary, Emily smiled faintly, as if she already knew why I was there. “He’s awake,” she said softly. “He’ll be glad to hear from you.”
I nodded, murmured a thanks, and stepped past the curtain.
Eli was sitting up in bed, a patch of sunlight spilling across his lap. The bandages still covered his eyes, pale against his skin, and the faint bruises along his neck looked like the shadows of wings. He tilted his head slightly when he heard me. “Naib?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s me.”
He smiled, soft and surprised. “You came back.”
“Didn’t think I’d stay away forever.” I set the flowers down on the table beside him. “Brought something for you.”
“Flowers?” His tone was teasing, but gentle.
“Yeah,” I said. “You used to like having them around.”
He laughed softly. “I can’t see them anymore, Naib.”
“I know.” I hesitated, then added, “But I can tell you what they look like.”
At that, Eli’s smile grew–the kind that used to make my chest tighten even before the fire. “Then tell me,” he said. I sat down on the edge of his bed, my voice quieter now. “They’re white chrysanthemums. The petals look like they’re made of silk… delicate, but they don’t wilt easily. And there are blue forget-me-notes woven between them–bright, like tiny pieces of sky.”
He was silent for a moment, then asked softly, “Why those?”
“Because….” I stopped, then breathed out. “Because chrysanthemums mean remembrance. And forget-me-nots…well, they mean exactly what they say.”
A faint smile ghosted across his face. “You always were more poetic than you let on.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I said, forcing a small laugh. “Would ruin my reputation.”
He laughed too, quiet and genuine, and for a moment–just a fleeting moment–it almost felt like before. Then he reached out, his hand searching the air until it brushed my sleeve. His touch lingered. “Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I wanted to,” I said.
And I meant it.
I sat there for a while, listening to the faint tick of the clock on the wall and the birds outside the window. Eli had always liked mornings like this–the kind where the world felt half-awake and full of quiet possibility. He tilted his head toward the sound of the birds now. “You hear them?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “They’re loud today.”
“They must be happy the sun’s out.” He smiled faintly, that soft kind of smile that seemed to reach beyond his blindness. “Once I’m out of here,” Eli said, “I wanted to go back to the garden behind the west wing. Remember how we used to skip class and sit under that big oak tree?”
I laughed quietly. “Yeah. You’d bring your owl, and I’d end up covered in feathers by the end of it.”
“She liked you,” he said, his voice softening. “Even if you pretended she didn’t.”
“Yeah,” I murmured. “Guess she did.”
Eli tilted his head toward the window. “When the garden’s rebuilt, maybe we’ll plant something new for her. Something that lasts.”
Something that lasts.
I didn’t say anything for a while–just watched the light play across the floor, golden and alive. For the first time since the fire, I let myself believe that maybe things could grow again. “Yeah,” I said finally, smiling despite myself. “We’ll plant something beautiful.”
And Eli, still smiling, nodded. “Then it’s settled.” He then patted the mattress beside him and without hesitation, he said softly, “You can lie down here if you want. There’s enough room.”
I froze for a moment, surprised. “Here?”
He gave me a small, amused smile. “Yeah. I don’t bite.”
I laughed quietly, nerves fluttering in my stomach. “I’m not worried about that.”
I hesitated, then slowly swung one leg over the side of the bed and eased myself down beside him. The mattress creaked under my weight, but he shifted just enough to make room. “Comfortable?” he asked, his voice quiet but teasing.
“Surprisingly,” I admitted, letting my shoulder brush against his. The warmth from his bandaged form was gentle, grounding–a soft tether to the world I’d been drifting through. Eli’s hand moved slightly, finding mine under the thin blanket. He squeezed it once. “It’s okay to rest,” he said. “Even for a little while.”
We laid there in a comfortable silence for the next hour or so. I stared at the ceiling, watching the sunlight shift across the walls, painting gold where it touched. My thoughts kept drifting–back to the fire, the chaos, to everything that had been lost. The sound of the flames, the smoke, the fear in everyone’s eyes. And then to Eli, laying beside me, fragile yet steady, and the sheer unfairness of it all pressed against my chest like a weight I couldn’t lift.
And maybe we’ll never move on.
Because moving on sounded too much like forgetting, and I couldn’t forget the smoke, the faces, the things left unsaid. But maybe grief wasn’t meant to vanish–it was meant to settle quietly, like dust after a storm, until you could breathe again without choking.
Eli shifted, smiling faintly even in his sleep, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel angry that the sun was shining. I didn’t feel bitter that the world kept turning while so much had fallen apart.
All we could do was carry what was left–the memories, the ache, the love–and keep walking anyway.
And as I lay there beside him, the morning light creeping over us both, I knew…that was enough.