I shouldn't have stayed.
—
That thought came early.
Quiet.
Persistent.
—
But I didn't leave.
—
People started moving after a while.
Soft conversations.
Low voices.
The kind people use when they don't know what to say
—
but feel like they should say something anyway.
—
I stood near the edge.
Not too close.
Not too far.
—
Close enough to hear.
Far enough to disappear.
—
"Jackson."
—
I stiffened slightly.
—
Christopher's mother.
—
She was closer now.
Someone had let go of her arm.
That didn't seem like a good idea.
—
"You came," she said again, like she needed to confirm it.
Like I might disappear if she didn't.
—
"…I said I would."
—
Her eyes softened.
Too much.
"He would've liked that," she whispered.
—
My chest tightened.
—
Would he?
—
"I'm glad he had someone,"
she continued.
Voice uneven.
"But he never told me things.
Never told me when he was hurting…"
A shaky breath.
"Did he ever say anything to you?"
—
The question lingered.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
—
I could feel it
—
before I even answered.
—
That stare.
—
His brother.
—
I didn't need to look to know he was watching.
I could feel it.
Sharp.
Unmoving.
—
"…No," I said.
—
The lie came easier than it should have.
—
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
Disappointment.
Relief.
Something in between.
—
"I thought maybe…" she trailed off, shaking her head.
"He kept everything inside.
Just like his father."
—
That explained more than she realized.
—
"I tried," she added quickly.
"I really did.
But he's always been sensitive.
His brother says he overthinks everything."
—
There it was again.
—
That word.
—
My jaw tightened slightly.
—
"He wasn't weak," I said before I could stop myself.
—
She blinked.
Surprised.
—
Then
—
her expression softened again.
Almost grateful.
—
"Yes," she said quietly.
"I know."
—
Silence fell between us.
Awkward.
Fragile.
—
"Take care of yourself,"
she added after a moment.
"Christopher wouldn't want you to be alone."
—
The words felt wrong.
In every possible way.
—
"…Yeah."
—
I stepped back.
—
And finally
—
I looked at him.
—
The brother.
—
He hadn't moved.
Not once.
—
Still watching.
—
This time
—
I didn't look away.
—
For a second
—
we just stood there.
No words.
No pretense.
—
Then
—
he smiled.
—
Small.
Cold.
—
And just like before
—
he turned.
Walked away.
—
Like he already knew how this would end.
—
I exhaled slowly.
Didn't realize I'd been holding it.
—
"…Tch."
—
Voices drifted from behind me.
—
"…they said it was late at night…"
"…no one noticed until morning…"
"…he didn't leave much behind…"
"…poor thing…"
—
I didn't want to listen.
—
But I did.
—
"…some people said he seemed fine…"
"…always quiet though…"
"…you never really know with people like that…"
—
People like that.
—
My hands clenched slightly.
—
"…maybe it was family pressure…"
"…or something else…"
"…we'll never know…"
—
No.
—
I turned away.
—
That wasn't true.
—
I walked out before they could say more.
—
The air outside felt different.
Colder.
—
Or maybe that was just me.
—
My car was where I left it.
Unchanged.
Like everything else.
—
I got in.
Closed the door.
—
Silence.
—
Real silence this time.
—
I sat there.
Hands on the steering wheel.
Not moving.
—
Minutes passed.
Or maybe longer.
—
I didn't check.
—
Christopher's voice didn't come back this time.
—
Instead
—
memories did.
—
Him sitting beside me.
Closer than before.
—
"…You don't have to stay."
—
"I know."
—
A pause.
—
"…Then why are you still here?"
—
He looked at me then.
Directly.
—
"…Because you didn't ask me to leave."
—
Something in my chest tightened.
—
"…Idiot."
—
"…Maybe."
—
A small smile.
Barely there.
—
That was new.
—
The memory shifted.
—
His shoulder brushing mine.
Accidentally.
—
Or maybe not.
—
Neither of us moved away.
—
The car felt smaller.
—
Too small.
—
I exhaled sharply.
Started the engine.
—
The sound broke the silence.
—
I didn't think.
—
I just drove.
—
Faster than I should have.
—
The road blurred slightly.
Buildings passing without meaning.
—
"…Careful."
—
His voice again.
Soft.
Unwanted.
—
I tightened my grip on the wheel.
—
"Shut up."
—
But my foot eased off the accelerator anyway.
—
Just a little.
—
"…Yeah,"
I muttered.
—
"Careful."