1. The First Morning
The sun rose like it had the audacity to believe this day was worth beginning.
Noah lay on the floor of their—*his*—apartment, cheek pressed to the wood where Lena's wheelchair had left scuff marks. He'd slept there, though *slept* wasn't the right word. More like passed out from exhaustion after screaming himself raw.
His phone buzzed.
Mom (8:03 AM): Call me when you're ready.
Lena's sister (8:05 AM):
The funeral home needs to know if you want—
Noah threw the phone against the wall. It shattered.
Somewhere, in some other universe, Lena was laughing at him. "Dramatic,"she would have said, her voice warm with affection.
In this universe, there was only silence.
---
2. The Funeral
Noah wore the black suit Lena had always loved on him.
"You look like a poet at a funeral," she'd once teased, straightening his tie. "All brooding and beautiful."
Now, he stood at the podium of a crowded chapel, staring at the urn containing what was left of her. He'd written a speech. It was in his pocket. He couldn't remember a single word.
The silence stretched.
Someone coughed.
Noah opened his mouth. What came out wasn't poetry or eulogy—just a broken, childlike whisper:
"She hated lilies."
Then he walked out, leaving two hundred mourners staring at his back.
---
3. The Ghosts
Lena was everywhere.
In the coffee shop where they'd had their first date—her favorite corner booth sat empty, a single sugar packet abandoned on the table.
In the park where they'd kissed under fireworks—the grass still held the impression of their bodies from last summer.
In the shower, where her shampoo bottle remained untouched, the scent of vanilla and rain fading day by day.
Noah started talking to her.
"The ferns died," he told the empty apartment. *"I forgot to water them."*
The silence that answered was worse than any reply.
---
4. The Nightmares
Every night, Noah dreamed of losing her again.
Sometimes it was the aneurysm—blood blooming beneath her skin like ink in water. Sometimes it was slower—her body turning to dust in his arms while he begged her to stay.
The worst nights were the ones where she lived.
Where he'd wake reaching for her, the memory of her warmth so vivid he could swear—
Then reality would crash in.
Noah began sleeping with her sweater pressed to his face, breathing in the last traces of her scent until his lungs burned.
---
5. The First Time He Forgot
Seven months in, Noah woke up and didn't think of her immediately.
It took three whole seconds—blinking at the sunlight, stretching—before the memory hit like a truck.
He vomited over the side of the bed.
Then sobbed.
Then screamed into her pillow until his voice gave out.
Because forgetting, even for a moment, felt like betrayal.
---
6. The Letters
Noah found them in a shoebox under the bed—twelve envelopes, each labeled with a month.
For When You Miss Me Most
He opened the first with shaking hands.
Dear Noah,
If you're reading this, I've been dead approximately 30 days. Congratulations on surviving a month without me—I know you're terrible at being alone.
Her handwriting. Her voice. Her aliveness trapped in ink.
Noah laughed through tears.
The letter continued:
Here's your assignment: Go to our diner. Order my favorite pancakes. Tell the waitress I said hi. Then come home and scream into a pillow until you feel better. Repeat as needed.
P.S. The ferns were doomed anyway. Don't feel bad.
Noah read it seventeen times in a row.
Then he put on his shoes and went to the diner.
---
7. The Turning Point
One year to the day, Noah visited the beach where they'd last swam together.
He brought the urn.
"You'd hate this," he told it, the wind stealing his words. "Me moping. You always said I was prettier when I smiled."
The waves crashed. A seagull cried.
Noah unscrewed the urn.
"Look for me in bookstores and bad weather," he whispered, and let the wind take her.
---
8. The After
Noah didn't move on.
He didn't get over it.
But he learned to live with the ghost of her—to carry the weight of her absence like a second skeleton.
He went back to school. He got a dog. He read their favorite poems aloud to empty rooms.
And sometimes, when the light hit just right, he could almost hear her laughing.
"There you are," she'd say. "I knew you'd figure it out."
---
Final Lines
The earth kept turning.
Noah kept breathing.
And somewhere—in the rustle of pages, in the crash of waves, in the spaces between heartbeats—
Lena stayed.