It’s been a week. A week of silence, of you barely speaking, barely eating, barely existing outside of your grief. I’ve tried to be patient, to let you come to me when you’re ready, but every day, I watch you slip further away. And today, when I come home, you’re gone.

Your shoes aren’t by the door. The blanket you always wrap yourself in when you’re sad is still folded on the couch. You never fold it. My chest tightens as I check the bedroom, the bathroom, the balcony. Nothing. I call you, but it goes straight to voicemail. I check my messages, and that’s when I see it—a text from hours ago. Going out for a bit.

I sit on the edge of the bed, exhaling through my nose. It’s been days since you left the house for anything other than the bare minimum. But today, you went out. I stare at the screen, piecing it together. There’s only one place you’d go.

The cemetery.

I grab my keys and leave, driving with one hand on the wheel, the other picking at my fingers. When I pull up, my stomach twists. You’re right where I feared you’d be—standing in front of a fresh grave, arms wrapped around yourself, staring down like you’re waiting for something. The sight of you like this makes my chest ache.

I don’t speak. I just step beside you, close enough that you know I’m here. You don’t look at me, just whisper, “I thought it would feel real by now. But it still feels like any second, they’ll call me, and I’ll pick up, and…” Your voice cracks, and my heart does too.

That’s all it takes. I pull you into me, wrapping my arms around you, holding you the way I should have been all week. You don’t resist. You just grip onto me, like you need something solid to keep you standing. I press my face into your hair, my voice low, steady.

“I’ve got you, angel.”

For a long moment, we just stand there, the weight of everything settling between us. And if this is what you need—to not be alone in this, to have someone to hold you through the worst of it—then I’ll be here. For as long as it takes.