Chapter Text
The first thing people stop saying after someone dies is their name.
It's strange how quickly it happens — how the silence creeps in like fog, settling over everything before you even notice it's there.
For the first week, everyone wraps themselves around the grief like it belongs to them. Teachers stop lessons halfway through class, their voices cracking as they tell students there will be counselors available in the library.
Flowers appear where there shouldn't be flowers.
Candles burn down to puddles of wax.
Everyone says his name.
James.
James.
"Poor James."
They say it like a prayer. They say it like if they hold it in their mouths long enough, it might bring him back.
Then, little by little, they stop.
"You know… about the accident?"
"What happened this summer…"
"That boy."
As if saying his name too often might crack something open that could never be closed again. As if the sound of it might bring the whole town to its knees.
Martin refused to let that happen.
His name was James.
He laughed too loud during movies — the kind of laugh that made strangers turn around, and then made them smile in spite of themselves.
He stole fries off everyone's plate and somehow convinced them it was fair. He'd grin with his mouth full and you'd just hand him more.
He couldn't whistle, no matter how hard he tried, and he tried every single day like the universe owed him that one small thing.
He believed every road looked better with the windows down, even in winter, even in rain, even when everyone else in the car was freezing and shouting at him to stop.
And now he's dead.
Martin still doesn't know how the world keeps spinning after that.
...
Martin's phone buzzes at 6:17 every morning.
Not because someone is texting him.
Because he never turned off the alarm James made.
The label still reads:
**DON'T BE A LOSER. GET UP.**
He stares at the screen until it stops vibrating.
Then Martin hits snooze.
Just like he always did.
Except now no one pounds on his bedroom window fifteen minutes later, yelling that he's making them late.
The silence that follows is worse than the alarm.
Mrs. Edwards knocks once before opening the bedroom door.
"You'll miss the bus."
"I'm awake."
She looks at her son for a second longer than she used to.
Everyone does that now.
Like they're waiting for him to fall apart.
Maybe he already did.
She leaves without another word.
Martin sits on the edge of his bed.
James's hoodie hangs over his desk chair.
Navy blue.
Too small for him now.
It still smells faintly like lake water and pine, though maybe that's just his heart clinging to something it refuses to let go of.
He hasn't washed it.
He doesn't think he ever will.
...
School starts today.
The first day of senior year.
It was supposed to be theirs.
James had plans.
He said they'd own the hallway like they owned the place.
He wanted matching parking spots.
He wanted to prank the principal one last time.
He wanted graduation photos where both of them looked ridiculously cool.
He wanted...
He wanted so many things.
And Martin keeps catching himself using the present tense. Like if he just say it right, say it in the now, maybe it stays true. Maybe he's still here wanting things.
His English teacher would probably correct him.
"Wanted, Martin."
Past tense.
Always past tense now.
....
The hallway smells like floor polish and cheap perfume.
Conversations stop when Martin walks in.
Just for a second.
Then they start again.
Quieter.
He knows they're trying not to stare.
They're terrible at it.
Someone pats his shoulder.
Someone else says they're sorry.
Another person says they're glad he's back.
Back from where?
Grief isn't a place you visit.
It's a place you get stranded.
Martin reaches for his locker.
Someone has taped a photograph to the inside of the door.
It's him and James.
They're soaked from jumping into the lake.
James is grinning at the camera with one arm thrown around Martin's shoulders.
Martin pretends to shove him away.
He remembers exactly what happened after that picture.
James splashed him.
Martin chased him into the water.
They laughed so hard they couldn't breathe.
For one impossible second, Martin forgets.
Then reality catches up.
His knees nearly give out.
He closes the locker before anyone sees.
Too late.
Someone already did.
"Hey."
He doesn't have to turn around to know who it is.
Emma.
James's sister.
Her voice is smaller than it used to be.
"So..."
She stops.
Neither of them knows what comes after that.
Finally, she reaches into her backpack and hands Martin something wrapped in faded blue fabric.
"It's yours," she says.
Martin unfolds it carefully.
A disposable camera.
Mud stains one corner.
The wheel is stuck halfway.
He recognizes it instantly.
James bought it at a gas station in June.
He said phone pictures felt too easy.
"Real memories deserve real film."
Martin swallows hard.
"We never got it developed."
Emma nods.
"No."
Their eyes meet.
For the first time since the funeral, neither of them looks away.
"I thought..." she whispers. "I thought maybe you'd want to see the pictures."
She walks away before Martin can answer.
He stares at the camera in his hands.
Twenty-seven photos.
One summer.
One boy who thought he had forever.
But maybe that's where it begins.