The early morning sun seeps through the blinds in golden threads, painting long, honey-hued shadows across the worn hardwood floor. The air is still, heavy with the scent of dust and something faintly metallic—maybe the radiator kicking in. Jas stirs beneath the crumpled sheets, their fabric rough against his skin. He shifts, wincing slightly as his muscles protest—tight, sore, like old rubber bands stretched too far. His back pops as he rolls over. The silence in the room hums like a low frequency in his ears.
But there's something different today. Barely there, but real. A subtle loosening in his chest, like a fist unclenching after years of clenching tight. The weight of everything feels... lighter. Not gone, just not as sharp.
His feet meet the cold floor with a jolt—smooth but biting like ice-glazed tile—and he stands, stretching until his joints crackle. The room smells of sleep and faint traces of the lavender spray he used weeks ago. A breath in, and he can feel the chill settle deep in his lungs, grounding him.
The stillness isn't empty—it's expectant, like the world's holding its breath, waiting. His thoughts, usually a chaotic roar, now move more slowly, like leaves swirling in a gentle current. For once, his mind isn't screaming. It's whispering.
The past has always towered over him like an ancient mountain, its peak buried in cloud, cold and unreachable. But today... today it feels more like a trailhead. Dirt path. Thorns and roots, yes—but walkable. Doable. He can almost feel the crunch of gravel beneath his imagined steps.
He knows now—he really knows—that healing isn't a blast of clarity or a single breakthrough. It's the slow, gritty process of choosing to keep going, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.
As he goes about his morning—hands brushing against the cool porcelain of the sink, toothbrush rhythmically scraping against teeth—memories begin to stir. Not the ones that come with panic, but ones wrapped in warmth and sorrow. His mother's laugh, soft and melodious like wind chimes in summer. The smell of her cooking—cinnamon and garlic, sweet and savory—the comforting clatter of pans, her humming weaving through the air like a lullaby.
He doesn't push them away this time. He lets them wash over him, gentle and aching, like ocean waves that no longer try to drown him. Grief, for once, feels like a blanket instead of a storm.
But then the memory shifts—tires screaming, glass exploding like fireworks, metal twisting like tinfoil. Her body, still and silent, blood like ink spreading on white paper. That moment. That crash. The before and after. It punches the air from his lungs every time. His throat tightens.
The guilt creeps back in, whispering in its venomous voice: You failed her. Too slow. Too weak. Too late. But Jas breathes through it. The oxygen burns a little as it enters his chest.
Today, though... today he hears the guilt differently.
It's not a sentence. It's a symptom of love.
That aching weight he's been dragging? It's love that never had a place to go. That ache is proof he felt deeply. That he cared.
He finds himself in the car, barely remembering the drive. The hum of the engine, the rhythmic slap of tires over potholes, the faint rattle of something in the glove compartment—it all feels distant. The world blurs until it sharpens again at the cemetery gates.
The smell of damp earth and cut grass hits him as he steps out. It's brisk, almost sharp in his nose. The wind is gentle but cool, brushing his cheeks like a ghost's touch. The stone is just as he remembers—worn, weathered, her name etched in eternal stillness. His chest tightens. The grief hums like a violin string stretched to its limit.
He kneels on the grass—dewy, soft, sticking to his jeans—and leans against the tree they used to sit under on picnics. He closes his eyes. Birds chirp distantly. Leaves rustle above him, whispering old secrets. He presses his palm to the ground beside her grave, the soil cold but comforting. It feels like touching memory itself.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he says, his voice a fragile tremble carried off by the breeze. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."
The wind doesn't answer, but something shifts. A stillness settles—not emptiness, but peace. In that silence, he finds his voice again. He lets the truth rise from his chest, raw and unfiltered.
"I was just a kid... I couldn't have known. I didn't know how to hold it all. But I did everything I could."
His tears come slow, hot streaks down chilled skin. He doesn't fight them. He lets them fall, lets them soak into the earth where love and pain mingle.
When he rises, legs numb and back stiff, he feels something loosen inside. The grief still clings, but it's not strangling. It's just... present. A companion now. Not a captor.
The sun has climbed higher. Warm light spills across his skin, brushing his face like a gentle hand. And Jas walks back to his car with a new quiet strength in his chest.
Back home, the silence is different. No longer oppressive—just calm. He sinks into the couch, the cushions sagging under him like they've been waiting. He closes his eyes. The distant hum of a passing car, the ticking of the wall clock, the faint scent of coffee grounds—every sound and smell seems sharper, more alive.
Then his phone buzzes. That sharp, metallic hum pulls him from the softness of reflection. He reads the message from Malik. You good? You should come through to the gym later.
He stares at the words, heart tapping against his ribs. That familiar instinct tells him to say no, to retreat. But another voice—a softer, sturdier one—speaks up. Go. Move. Heal.
He texts back: Yeah, I'm good. I'll be there.
The gym is a blast of scent and sound. Rubber mats, chalk dust, metal, and sweat. Weights clank like steel thunder. The air is hot and dry, buzzing with movement. Malik's grin cuts through it all, wide and full of life.
"Yo, Jas!" he calls, his voice echoing against the walls. "It's been too long!"
They warm up, limbs stretching, joints popping. Jas's breath comes quick, his pulse rising. The resistance in his muscles, the tension—it feels good. Real. Grounding. Pain, but with purpose.
Malik cracks jokes. Jas chuckles—quietly, but it's real. In the rhythm of movement, there's peace. No thoughts—just reps, breath, sweat. The iron in his hands feels solid. Reliable. Every drop of sweat feels like another layer of grief worked loose from his bones.
Eventually, Malik asks, "You good, for real?"
Jas doesn't answer right away. Just lifts. Feels the burn in his arms, the shake in his legs. Finally, he sets the weight down.
"I'm getting there," he says, voice steady. "Starting to let go."
Malik nods. "That's all you can do. Keep pushing."
By the end, Jas's shirt clings to him with sweat, his body aches, but it's a good ache. Earned. Honest. Malik claps him on the back—hard, solid, reassuring.
Outside, the night air wraps around him like a cool blanket. The stars blink above, scattered across the sky like reminders: even in darkness, there's light.
He exhales, long and deep. The pain's still there—but now, it's quieter.
And Jas? He's moving forward.