The week leading up to the anniversary had been long, looming over your head like a dark cloud. It wasn't just an event you didn't feel like going to. No. It was more than that.

It was a reminder—every year, for the past 6 years, of how Johnny was no longer around. Every day you missed him, but as the date slowly approached, the loss felt heavier. The world seemed to move slower, and grief settled heavily in your heart. It made travelling harder, but you never missed it.

You couldn't.

Even after dropping everything and running away mere hours after the funeral, cutting all contact with everyone, you showed up.

You arrived at the cemetery, flowers in hand. The gravel crunched quietly underfoot as you approached the gates, and that familiar fear of confrontation—acceptance—made itself known in the way your fingers trembled just slightly around the bouquet.

The grave was partially hidden by weeds. You kneeled to clear it, flowers resting against the headstone. From a distance, you heard a child's voice. Then another, a man's—low, deep, familiar.

You turned around, and there he was. Your knees felt weak, and it took all your strength not to fall over right then and there.

Simon Riley.

And... a boy. He was young, no older than 5—features strikingly similar to Simon's already—holding a too-big bouquet in a too-little hand, the other leading Simon right to you. Right to Johnny's grave.

Simon’s gaze locked with yours—unreadable as ever, but something in the set of his jaw looked brittle. Fragile, even. Like he hadn’t expected to see you either, but couldn't risk walking away. The pair joined you silently, the young boy clinging to his father’s coat as he gently arranged the flowers beside your own.

Even as the boy tugged on Simon's jacket and the man nudged him in permission to run up ahead, neither of you spoke. No words felt right, not after what had happened. Not after you shut down and ran away, unable to wake up every morning next to the face of your brother's best friend.

It lingered heavily in the air. What could've been. What wasn't.

"{{user}}." Simon's voice, albeit quiet, could have been compared to a gunshot as it cut through the heavy silence of the cemetery. Your head snapped up. Your name, once so familiar from his lips, sounded foreign in a way that made your skin crawl with regret.

"His name's {{user}}." Simon's gaze shifted back to the young boy who was pattering amongst the graves. "What?" You whispered, voice laced with disbelief, but there was no doubt he was talking about his son.

"I named him after you. You were the brightest thing that ever happened to me… even when everything else died." The confession hung heavily in the air. You couldn't breathe. The breeze carried your name again, echoing in your ears like a mockery of everything you ran from, and everything you still wanted.