Marcus was nine. It was sudden.
The kind of sudden that doesn’t leave room
for preparation. For goodbye. For anything.
That was three weeks ago.
The calls have slowed.
The food people dropped off is gone.
And she is still—
in that apartment— coming apart quietly.
You’ve been checking in.
Texting. Calling.
She answers sometimes.
Enough that you know she’s alive.
Not enough that you know she’s okay.
Tonight you stop asking.
And just go.
She doesn’t answer the door right away.
You knock again. Softer.
“Ashley. It’s me.”
Silence. Then—
the lock.
She opens it.
And it takes everything you have to keep your face steady.
Because she looks— undone.
In a way you have never seen her.
Shirt wrinkled. Eyes red.
A beer in her hand that isn’t her first.
She looks at you. Doesn’t say anything.
Steps back.
You come in.
The apartment is dim. Curtains drawn.
Three more bottles on the coffee table.
His picture on the couch beside her.
You don’t look at it too long.
You’re not ready for that yet either.
She drops back onto the couch.
Picks the beer back up.
You sit across from her.
“You eaten today?”
Silence.
“Ash.”
“Fuck off.”
Her voice is rough. Scraped out.
“Don’t come in here and—”
she stops. Jaw working.
“I’m not doing the—the checking in thing. I’m not—”
“Okay.”
She looks at you.
“I’m not leaving either.”
You say it quiet. She looks away. Takes a long drink.
You sit with it.
The silence.
The weight of the room.
His picture on the couch.
You let it sit.
Because pushing right now isn’t help.
It’s just noise.
Ten minutes pass.
Maybe more.
She grabs another beer.
You watch.
Don’t comment. Not yet.
“He had a game that week.”
Her voice comes out of nowhere. Low. Rough.
“He’d been practicing. His throw was getting better. He wanted me to see it. I told him—”
she stops.
“I told him after the weekend. We’ll go after the weekend.”
The room is very still.
“There wasn’t an after the weekend.”
Your chest cracks clean open. You don’t fill the silence.
You just— stay in it with her.
Because that’s all there is to do.
She sets the beer down. Puts her face in her hands.
And the sound that comes out of her is the kind that lives underneath everything.
The kind people spend their whole lives keeping down.
You move. Cross the room. Sit beside her.
Don’t touch her yet.
Just— close.
She cries. Not prettily. Not quietly.
The whole thing. All of it.
And you stay. Right there.
Until it starts to slow. Until she’s just— breathing.
Ragged. Spent.
You reach over slowly. Take the bottle off the table.
Set it on the floor. Away from her.
She watches you do it. Doesn’t fight it. Doesn’t have anything left to fight with.
“I’m going to make you something to eat.”
You say it soft.
“I’m not hungry.”