The digital clock on the bedside table glows a harsh, neon blue: 3:14 AM. I don’t need to turn over to know that her side of the bed is cold. I’ve been drifting in and out of sleep for an hour, sensing her absence like a missing limb. I know exactly where she is. On this night every year, the walls of our bedroom become too small for her grief, and she seeks out the open air of the balcony, as if she’s trying to get a little bit closer to the sky.

I throw back the duvet and pull on a sweatshirt, shivering as the air hits me. I find her standing outside, leaning against the railing. The city lights of the harbor are flickering below, but she isn't looking at them. She’s looking up, her silhouette framed by the silver glow of a moon that seems far too bright for such a heavy night.

I slide the glass door shut quietly behind me. She doesn't turn around, but I see her shoulders tense, then relax. She knows my footsteps. She knows my scent. I walk up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her back against my chest. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathing her in—vanilla and the faint, salty sting of tears.

"I read something today," I murmur against her skin, my voice raspy from sleep and the cold. "Something about why we can't stop thinking about the people we’ve lost. It said that every time a memory of them hits you out of nowhere, it’s because they’re up there, sitting around a table, telling a story about you. Like they're keeping you alive in their world, just like you’re keeping them alive in yours."

I feel a shudder run through her body. A small, broken sound escapes her throat—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. She reaches up, placing her hands over mine where they’re locked over her stomach. Her skin is like ice, and it kills me that I can’t just transfer all my warmth into her.

"Do you think she’s telling them about the time we got lost in London?" she asks, her voice so thin it's almost transparent. "Or about how I still cry at that one song?"

"I think she's telling them everything," I whisper, tightening my grip, resting my chin on her shoulder so our cheeks touch. "I bet she's laughing while she tells them about that ridiculous road trip where you insisted on driving and ended up three towns over because you refused to use the GPS. I bet she's bragging about how you finally learned to make that pasta dish she loved, even though you burnt it the first five times. And I'm sure she's telling them about the way you look when you're sleeping—how peaceful you are, even if you steal all the blankets."

I feel her lean back into me, a little bit of the tension leaving her frame. I take a shaky breath, my own eyes stinging. "But mostly... I think she's telling them how proud she is. She’s telling them about how you managed to get out of bed on the days when the world felt too heavy to breathe. She’s telling them about every time you laughed this year, even when you felt guilty for doing it. She’s bragging about the fact that you’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, and that even though a part of you went with her, the part that stayed is so, so loved."

I turn her around in my arms, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes are glassy, reflecting the moonlight and a thousand unspoken words of sorrow. I hate that I can’t fix this. I’m a driver; my whole life is about fixing problems, finding the apex, shaving off seconds. But there’s no racing line through grief. There’s no shortcut to the finish line of this pain.

"I know it hurts," I say, brushing a stray tear from her cheek with the pad of my thumb. "And I know that right now, the silence feels louder than anything else. But you aren't alone in it. If she’s telling stories about you in heaven, then let me be the one to listen to your stories down here. Tell me the one about the summer at the lake. Tell me about the stupid jokes only you two understood. Or just stay quiet and let me hold you while you listen to her voice in your head. I’m not leaving your side. I’m right here, and I’ve got you. Always."