The cemetery was quieter than I expected.
Not peaceful.
Just… quiet.
—
The kind of quiet that didn't comfort anyone.
—
I stood at the entrance longer than I should have.
Pink roses still in my hand.
Unwrapped.
Unprotected.
Like they didn't belong here.
—
Maybe they didn't.
—
People were already gathered.
Small crowd.
Just like she said.
Family.
A few faces I recognized from college.
People who had sat in the same room as him
—
but never really saw him.
—
My grip tightened slightly.
—
I walked in anyway.
—
No one stopped me.
No one questioned me.
—
Of course not.
To them
—
I was just another classmate.
—
I saw her first.
Christopher's mother.
—
She looked worse than yesterday.
—
Eyes red.
Unfocused.
Like she hadn't slept.
Like she hadn't stopped crying
—
even now.
—
Someone was holding her arm.
Keeping her steady.
But it didn't look like it was helping.
—
"…He was fine," she kept saying.
Soft. Broken.
"He was fine faw days ago… he didn't say anything… he didn't tell me…"
—
No one answered her.
—
What were they supposed to say?
—
I looked away.
—
And then
—
I saw him.
—
Christopher's father.
—
Standing a little further back.
Straight posture.
Hands behind his back.
Face unreadable.
—
Not crying.
Not speaking.
—
Just… there.
—
Like this was something that had to be done.
Nothing more.
—
My jaw tightened.
—
And then
—
—
"You came."
—
The voice cut through everything.
—
I turned.
—
His brother.
—
Of course.
—
He looked like Christopher. But sharper. Colder .
—
Same eyes
—
but without the softness.
—
They were watching me.
Carefully.
Too carefully.
—
"I did,"I said.
A pause.
—
His gaze dropped briefly
—
to the flowers in my hand.
—
Pink roses.
—
Something flickered in his expression.
Recognition.
—
"…He liked those."
—
Not a question.
—
"I know."
—
Silence stretched between us.
Longer than it should have.
—
There was something in the way he looked at me.
Not confusion.
Not curiosity.
—
Understanding.
—
And that
—
that was wrong.
—
"You were close to him," he said.
—
Not asking.
—
I didn't answer.
—
Because suddenly
—
it didn't feel like a choice anymore.
—
His lips curved slightly.
Not a smile.
Something else.
—
"…I wondered when you'd show up." —
My chest tightened.
—
"What does that mean?"
—
Another pause.
—
Then, quieter
—
so no one else could hear
—
—
"He talked in his sleep sometimes."
—
The world seemed to still for a second.
—
"…What?"
—
His eyes stayed on mine.
Unmoving.
—
"Names," he added.
"Things he wouldn't say when he was awake."
—
My grip on the roses tightened.
A thorn pressed into my skin.
I didn't react.
—
"…You shouldn't be here," he said softly.
—
The words didn't sound like a warning.
—
They sounded like a fact.
—
I felt something shift in my chest.
Slow.
Heavy.
—
"…And yet," I replied quietly, "I am."
—
For a moment
—
neither of us moved.
—
Then
—
he leaned slightly closer.
—
Not enough for anyone to notice.
Just enough
—
—
"I know what you are to him."
—
My breath stopped.
—
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
—
Just
—
gone.
—
But he straightened again before I could respond.
Stepped back.
Expression blank.
—
Like nothing had happened.
—
"…Enjoy the funeral," he said normally.
And walked away.
—
Just like that.
—
I stood there
—
still holding the roses.
—
Still breathing
—
just barely.
—
He knows.
—
The thought settled in slowly.
Carefully.
—
Not loud.
Not panicked.
—
Just certain.
—
My gaze drifted toward the front
—
where Christopher was.
—
Closed casket.
—
Of course.
—
Something twisted in my chest again.
Sharper this time.
—
I stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
—
Each one heavier than the last.
—
People moved aside.
Without realizing.
Without understanding why.
—
And suddenly
—
I was there.
—
Right in front of him.
—
Or what was left.
—
The roses felt heavier now.
—
"They don't last."
—
His voice echoed in my head.
Soft.
Unchanging.
—
"…Yeah," I whispered.
—
My hand moved before I could stop it. Placing them down gently.
Carefully.
—
Like he might still notice.
—
Like it still mattered.
—
"…You should've told me," I said under my breath.
—
The words slipped out. Quiet.
Useless.
—
Because deep down
—
I already knew the truth.
—
He did.
—
I just didn't listen.