Archive of Our Own

“It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.”

“Grief, a type of sadness that most often occurs when you have lost someone you love, is a sneaky thing because it can disappear for a long time, and then pop back up when you least expect it.”

-Lemony Snicket.

“There's been an accident.”

Four words. Four simple words bring Mitch's world crashing down.  

“I'm so sorry. We did everything we could.”

Eight. Eight words set it on fire.

Mitch blinks at the doctor, hearing him but not quite understanding. A shaky feeling settles in the pit of his stomach and everything around him seems slightly off-kilter. He opens his mouth to speak but his throat feels like sandpaper and all that comes out is a choked little gasp.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with more gray hair than most at his age, reaches out and touches Mitch's arm. “I'm sorry,” he says again, his blue eyes full of genuine sympathy and concern. “Can we call anyone for you?”

Wake up.

It's a clichè to think that he's dreaming. But Mitch can't help himself. His thoughts flit around, a violent and churning sea of emotions as his mind refuses to process what is actually happening.

The doctor’s shoes are faded and worn. The lime green laces clash horrifically with the dark blue scrubs he's wearing. His glasses are rimmed in thin wire and rest crookedly on his nose. His scrub cap has kittens on it.

The gray kitten kind of looks like Wyatt. Wyatt who has been home alone for the better part of the day now. It's nearly seven in the evening now, way past his scheduled dinner time and he's probably pissed at Scott and Mitch for making him wait.

Scott is-

A toddler is screaming at the top of his lungs somewhere behind Mitch. He fights the urge to look over his shoulder and glare at the offender. He's admittedly not the most patient with little kids. The younger they are, the more they drive him crazy. Sure, babies are fat and cute when they're giggly or sleepy or just happy , but god forbid that something in their perfect little world goes wrong because that just ruins literally everything.

Except for Landon. Landon has always been a happy kid. Even as a baby he didn't cry that often.  Not that Mitch saw him every single day, but his parents both claim to have probably the easiest kid in the world and Mitch finds it really easy to believe them. Probably because he's related to Scott who is the happiest person to ever exist.

Scott is-

Mitch's sweater itches. Unbearably so. Scott tells him that it looks incredible on him, but then again Scott says that about every single article of clothing Mitch owns.

Scott is-

He's too warm. The sweater is practically suffocating him. Mitch makes a mental note to never wear it again. Scott has a hoodie that he'd much rather be wearing right about now.

Scott is-

Wake up.

“Mr. Grassi?”

The doctor is still there, somehow. And the toddler is still screaming. Mitch's head is pounding. Every noise. Every change between light and shadow makes it throb more and more until Mitch becomes nauseous. He reaches up to rub at his temple. Maybe Scott has something he can take before this headache escalates into a full blown migraine.

Scott is-

“Mr. Grassi, why don't you sit down?”

Mitch searches for the words “Mr. Grassi is my father” but they're too far out of reach. It takes every ounce of concentration to follow the doctor’s suggestion and sink down into the armchair behind him. He shifts uncomfortably, trying to find a natural position but every bit of him feels completely unnatural. Sort of tingly like pins and needles throughout his entire body. He hates it. He feels like he's outside of himself.

“Take a deep breath for me.”

How?

It's not like he's forgotten how to breathe or anything dramatic like that. It just becomes harder for some reason. His chest hurts. Mitch tries to inhale but the stabbing pain stops him and he winces. He recognizes the signs of an oncoming panic attack and he tells himself to calm down before he makes a complete fool of himself, but needless to say, it's much easier said than done. Scott is so good at helping him, where is he?

Scott is-

Every time his mind tries to complete the thought, it skitters away from him, far too painful to grasp. But in his heart, Mitch knows and it's his worst nightmare come to life. There's no waking up from this. He needs Scott, where the hell is Scott?

Mitch is going to vomit. Despite the fact that he's sitting with his head between his legs, gently guided by the doctor, his stomach twists with a burning nausea that brings tears to his eyes. He's never been so still yet somehow the world around him has gone topsy-turvy.

“I'm so sorry.”

A third time. The words penetrate through Mitch's haze of panic, jerking him back to reality. He's reminded of why he is where he is and why he's suddenly struggling to breathe. The thought is still dancing around at the edges of his mind, taunting him.

He can't stop shaking.

“Would you like to see him?”

Yes. Please, God, yes.

Mitch always feels best when he's with Scott. He feels safer, more at peace. He feels complete. Right now it feels like his right arm has been torn off and he's trying to adapt to the phantom feeling of a missing limb. Scott makes everything better. Scott will make sense of all of this. Scott will make the nightmare come to an end. It wouldn't be the first time.

“Please come with me.”

Mitch doesn't have to be told twice. He stands, legs shaking badly, and follows the doctor down a series of hallways. The hustle and bustle of other doctors and nurses is a dull roar and filled with blurry, shadowy movement. Everything's so blurry and muffled that it has to be nothing more than a nightmare. He's on autopilot, not thinking about the elevator and the different floors and the turning of corners. His need to see Scott swells to a level of desperation that he's never known before. Scott always knows just what to say and do, and without him, Mitch can't function.

The doctor stops and Mitch nearly bumps into him. In front of them is a closed door with curtains drawn across a glass window to the room. “I'll give you some privacy,” the man says quietly. “Please let us know if we can call anyone for you.”

No. He'll have Scott so he'll be just fine. Mitch finally manages to take a deep breath and force what sort of resembles a smile as he nods. “Thanks,” he says unsteadily. “I think I'll be okay.”

For just an instant, the careful, professional mask falls away and Mitch sees a flash of concern in the doctor's face. Annoyance flares up inside of him and he tries to suppress it. He doesn't want to delay his reunion with Scott any longer. His heart feels like it's about to explode out of his chest.

He nods again and as the doctor leaves wraps a shaking hand around the door knob. He pulls at first, not thinking clearly, and then gives it such a violent push that he nearly falls into the room. “Scotty.”

It takes him a few seconds to find his balance and then a couple more to take in his surroundings. The small, almost terrifyingly quiet room. The dim lighting, casting foreboding shadows across the white walls and ceilings. The window looking out across the city skyline where everything catches fire as the sun sinks below the horizon. The bed.

Scott.

He lays still. Very still. Too still. It's unnatural and unsettling. His arms lay limp at his sides. His eyes are closed. His skin has a gray tone, scattered with purple bruising and swollen red scratches. His hair is messy and still matted with dried blood. Why haven't they helped him clean up a bit? He's going to freak when he wakes up.

He's not moving at all. The unnatural and unsettling part about his not moving is because Mitch can't see his chest rise and fall. He inches closer, stumbling a little closer. His throat is dry, painfully so, and when he opens his mouth he can hardly hear himself. “Scotty?”

Let's go home. He wants to say that to Scott. Poke him until he wakes up like he does nearly every morning and say, “Let's get out of here. Take me home.”

He's not breathing. Mitch feels the inhale and exhale of his own breathing and his mind scrambles to put the pieces together so he can figure out why they're not matching like they usually are.

The thought runs a full circle in his mind, completely it's circuit and then trapping him there:

Scott is dead.

Oh. Oh, oh, oh.

That’s the beginning of it:  the pain.  The completed thought plants a seed in his chest and it bursts into flames, burning him.  It starts in his heart and spreads quickly throughout his entire body.  It’s agonizing .  Deep and sharp, making him feel like his lungs are collapsing because his chest hurts so badly.  And he wonders, how is it possible to survive all of this pain?

Every part of him is hurting. He can hardly breathe or see. Please wake up, he begs Scott, a request that even his best friend can't fulfill. Scott isn't here, he realizes as the darkness first begins to take him. He's drowning in a sea of grief so vast that he can't possibly make sense of it. Turns out that grief is incomprehensible. It's not made to be understood.

His lungs are burning by now. Aching for air. He wants to breathe in but his reflexes, his body’s fight to survive, won't let him. He's alone, surrounded by this grief that wants to claim him and honestly he only wants to give in and let it. Stupid instincts. “Scott,” Mitch begs again. He wants nothing more than to be given an answer, but his plea falls into empty, silent space. He's drowning and he needs an anchor.

I need you, he thinks. I need you, I need you, I need you.

Mitch reaches out blindly and somehow finds Scott's hand. It's limp and cold and it doesn't feel like Scott at all. Mitch tries just once and squeezes the hand, but again, no response.

That's when he slips below the surface and finally breathes in.

He’s lost. At the very bottom of an ocean of grief, he sits in complete darkness. It's a suffocating, consuming darkness that holds his entire body hostage. A blackness so thick that he can't begin to fight his way out of it. It wraps itself around him like a blanket, weighing him down and making his body slow and heavy. He can't move. He can hardly breathe. Everything hurts.

Kirstie tries to talk to him. She screams and she cries and then she apologizes and begs for his forgiveness. There's nothing to apologize for. She's grieving too. Mitch shuts down and Kirstie, as usual, is wearing her heart on her sleeve for all to see. It's a terrible mix, really. Scott is always the one to balance them out.

Was.

Mitch inhales sharply, the reminder piercing him like a knife. The sound is the first he's made since Kirstie came in and she starts violently.

“Mitchy?”

God, it hurts. How is it possible to survive this much pain? It's like there's an invisible knife wound somewhere inside of him and every time he tries to breathe, blood pulses out of him and leaves him weaker and weaker. He keeps expecting the end to come because it can't continue like this, can it? He wasn't made to live like this.  Without Scott. There is no without Scott.

Mitch can hear Kirstie breathing nearby. She's waiting. She needs him. Or at least, she thinks she does. If only she knew that he can't possibly be what she really needs. The one person they both need has been taken away. Ripped away. Forever. Three has become two. The trio now a duo. It doesn't add up.

“Please,” she whispers and Mitch slowly stretches his pinkie finger out. It's so little, but it's all he has to offer. I'm sorry, he wants to say to her, but he just can't. It's not enough. He's not enough.

He feels her pinkie finger link with his, a desperate effort on her part to bridge the distance between them. She's so close to him yet so far away. She's hurting too, he reminds himself. If anyone knows what he feels like, it's Kirstie. Mitch has never hated himself more than he does now as he lays paralyzed by their shared loss.

He shuts his eyes and feels one lone tear slip past the barrier and slide down his cheek. The mattress gives just slightly under Kirstie's featherlight weight as she lays down next to him.  “Mitch,” she whispers again and he reluctantly peers through heavy-lidded eyes at her.

His eyes burn and feel swollen every time he blinks which only gives him more reason to keep them closed. He can just barely make out Kirstie's face right in front of him, her own eyes bright red and pained. “I don't-” he starts and stops. His throat feels like it's been coated with sandpaper and he doesn't recognize his voice. He tries again. “I don't know how to do this.”

There's no guideline for grief. The five stages are not the clean cut, organized steps that he once thought they were when he first heard of them. It's not a linear process where you can think, “Okay, first comes denial, then anger and bargaining, then depression and acceptance.” It's not that simple. Mitch finds himself wishing it were that simple because that way he might be able to picture himself coming to an end. The acceptance part.

Grief is a back and forth, jolting storm at sea. He can't believe it. Then he's blinded by the anger of the unfairness of it all. Then he can't get out of bed. Oftentimes he's caught between several of the “stages”, a turmoil of emotions churns inside of him and threatening to drown him. No. Grief is far from simple.

Kirstie slowly releases his pinkie and takes his whole hand, rubbing the back of it with her thumb. He watches her breathe, an erratic, scattered motion that he's afraid might stop at any moment. “I don't know how either,” she confesses brokenly. “But we can try together.”

She's trying so hard to be brave and Mitch doesn't want to try at all. He wants to wake up from this nightmare. Multiple times he has pinched himself so hard that he now has tiny blue and purple bruises scattered over his arms. The pain brings tears to his eyes but it does nothing to end the nightmare. He can't wake up from something that's real.

The idea that the world is still spinning, that life goes on, seems completely absurd to him. Mitch can't grasp life without Scott. He hardly remembers his years previous to meeting his best friend. His memories at ten and twelve and sixteen and twenty-three are so crystal clear, like a movie playing in front of him, but before ten is more like blurry, poorly developed snapshots. He can look at pictures of his sixth party and can remember the cake and the presents and his grandparents embarrassing him in front of everyone, but it's all pretty vague. He needs his mother there to remind him that he had a piñata shaped like The Hulk, not Spider-Man. Mitch just knew it was a superhero because he didn't mind hitting it with a bat.

He remembers his eleventh birthday party clearest of all because that was the first party that involved Scott. Mitch wore red because it was his favorite color at the time and Scott wore a blue shirt that was the exact same shade of his eyes. The cake was an elaborate Charlie and the Chocolate Factory thing that his mother somehow conjured up. A stage with a candied Willy Wonka, Charlie, and the other children standing around the candy forest, their mouths open and eyes wide in wonder. Ann Rakins and Ben Johnson ate Charlie and Mike TeeVee respectively which caused Mitch to hide in the bathroom so they wouldn't see him cry.  He remembers Scott handing him a birthday napkin from under the stall door and telling him that he liked ice cream better anyway. Then he said with the utmost certainty that Mitch would come to love, “Besides, I got you the best present so you have to come out and see it.”

It was a stuffed Pikachu. Mitch wasn't as big a fan of Pokémon as Scott was, but it came dressed in a white t-shirt that Scott had cut himself and scrawled on the front, “Best Mike TeeVee Ever.” in black Sharpie. “It's so you can remember how we met because we're best friends now,” he said, again with that confidence.

Mitch grew to envy that confidence, but Scott never left him behind. He let it carry the both of them all throughout elementary, middle, and high school. When they met Kirstie, she got swept up along in his daydreams and starry-eyed hopes. Avi and Kevin were no exceptions either. Scott never kept his dreams to himself. The word “impossible” just wasn't in his vocabulary.

This is impossible.

“Mitch.”

He snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of Kirstie's voice. “Hm?”

Kirstie laces their fingers together and gazes at him, concern softening her own sorrow for a moment. “Please,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “I can't do this alone.”

She's not alone. She has Avi. Kevin. Her family. All of their families. She has Jeremy for crying out loud. Not that he resents her at all for having them. They're just way more useful than he is. Still, she's asking him and he can't say no.

The funeral is relatively small. Private. Close family and friends. The press and onlookers with nothing better to do than intrude upon someone else's grief linger at the empty lot across the street. Mitch can't find the energy to be angry at them, but he's grateful for the handful of policemen standing guard outside the church.

He can't look at Scott's family in the first row. His father’s shoulders low and caved in, like he's aged thirty years in the last few days. His mother hasn't stopped sobbing and the sound is breaking him. Mitch shuts his eyes, wishing for all the world that he could cover his ears.

“They call kids without parents ‘orphans’ and men and women without their spouse a ‘widow’ or ‘widower’ but what do they call a parent who has lost a child?” He overheard his mother ask his mother that question last night. It made him feel young and small, six years all over again. In his room, listening to something he's not meant to hear. Never mind that Scott has two sisters. There's no doubt that losing him has impacted his family in ways Mitch can't even begin to imagine.

His mother is holding his hand now, gripping it actually. It hurts but he doesn't want her to let go. At least it's proof that he can feel something other than the gnawing pain in his chest. His dad is on his other side, arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Again, he feels about six years old. Small. Vulnerable. Helpless. Scared. Wake up, he says to himself, though the plea lacks the burning conviction of that night in the hospital.

Jeremy, Kirstie, and her parents are sitting off to his left. Jeremy, making vain attempts to be strong for his fiancée. Kirstie's parents, mourning for Scott as if he were their own son, just as Mitch's parents are. And he was, Mitch realizes. As close as he could come. Friends are the family you choose. The only difference is the blood that runs through their veins.

Kirstie has finally stopped crying, but somehow her numb quietness is even worse. Mitch can see her out of the corner of his eye, sitting ramrod straight as if she's afraid the slightest movement will break her in half. Jeremy is holding her hand but she looks like she's not even aware of him. Her face is so pale. Too pale. Deep, dark circles sit underneath her eyes and she stares without seeing the casket just several yards away. Mitch wants to move, wants to be near her, because he promised that they would do this together, but he's still trapped in the paralysis like a fly caught in a spiderweb.

Avi, Esther, Kevin, and their families are sitting off to his right. Kevin keeps looking at him and Mitch cannot stand the compassion in his eyes. Kevin, drowning in his own sorrow, is reaching out a hand to Mitch, offering a refuge from the storm that's threatening them all. Kevin, grieving with all of them, is thinking of everyone else but himself. It's what he does, what he's always done, but this time Mitch is afraid that his selflessness is paving a way to self-destruction. Kevin is the worst at taking care of himself and this is bigger than any of them. Be careful, he wants to say, but he can't because the six feet between them is more like six million miles.

Avi weeps silently, holding tightly to his sister’s hand in both of his. Stoic and brave. But he's trembling. Mitch can see from where he's sitting the slight tremors that race up and down his whole body. His eyes dart around the room, searching desperately for someone while also managing to avoid landing on the casket. Grief has aged him too. There are lines underneath his eyes that weren't there the week before the accident.

Esther clings to a soaked and ratty tissue, her body shaking with quiet sobs. She's trying with all her might to contain herself because Esther, sweet Esther, is afraid that she doesn't have the right to cry as much as Scott's own mother and sister. She does. Of course, she does, because Scott was like a second brother to her, and in some ways, he was even a son to her. She'd never admit it because she doesn't want to take anything else away from Scott's parents. But Mitch knows her and he knows Scott.

Knew.

He knew Scott. He knew the relationships he had with each and every person in this very room. He knows what he lost and he knows what everyone else lost. Mitch is very much aware of all of this. The only thing he doesn't know is how they're supposed to go on after such a loss.

His stomach lurches and it's all he can do to keep from throwing up. It's ridiculous. Mitch knows that there's nothing wrong with him. But everything feels wrong. Everything hurts. His chest feels like it's going to explode and his lungs feel like they've shrunk and won't allow him to breathe in enough air.

How is this happening?

Mitch slowly, gently pulls his hand out of his mother’s ironlike grip and digs his nails into his leg, trying to ground himself until he feels one nail snap. He wants to be anywhere but here, anywhere with Scott, alive and breathing and smiling and happy and Scott. He wants Scott. He needs Scott.

And Scott isn't here.

Mitch doubles over and covers his ears with his hands. He can hear his mother's soft voice, whispering an “Are you okay?” and he nearly chokes on the absurdity of it. No. He'll never be okay again.

Scott, where are you? Come back. Please. Can't you see how much we all need you? Can't you see how we're falling apart? Come back and fix us. Please. Come back to us. Come back to me.

He can't do this. The sadness is too deep, too loud and palpable. It's blinding and crushing and he can't handle it. Mitch shakes his parents off and staggers to his feet. He sways uncertainty for a couple of seconds, the room swimming around him. Then he runs.

Scott isn't here.

The absence is too strong in that room. The quiet, endless sobbing. The broken-hearted faces everywhere he looks. It's like a million voices screaming in his head, SCOTT ISN’T COMING BACK. HE’S NEVER COMING BACK. And he has to leave before he explodes and makes a mess out of everything. Before he hurts more than just himself.

He makes it into the hallway and nearly crashes into the wall. Gasping for breath, his fingers tear at the tie around his neck, struggling to loosen it. He can't breathe. He's on fire; burning alive.

“Mitch?”

Kevin. Avi. And Kirstie. One by one they file into the hallway, Avi closing the door quietly behind him. And that's when Mitch comes entirely undone. The sight of three of his best friends all wanting to help him. The closed door signaling that no one else is coming for him. Not that one person. The only person that Mitch needs. The one person who could make all of this go away is never coming back.

Kevin, sensing his distress, moves first. Mitch slaps him away once and then, too weak to fight, drops his arms to his sides. Kevin is mercilessly quick, undoing the tie and letting it fall to the floor. He unsnaps the collar of his shirt and then gently grips his shoulders. “Sit down,” he says quietly, guiding Mitch to the floor.

Mitch obeys, gladly handing over the last bit of control. He wants nothing to do with it. He wants nothing to do with himself. He sits down, letting Kevin ease his head down so that it rests on top of his knees.

The burning doesn't stop.

Get Scott, he begs in his head. Please get Scott. I need him.

He feels Kevin's strong arms go around him and falls limply into the embrace. The tightness in his chest is nearly unbearable.  He can feel Kirstie’s hand slipping into his and Avi’s quiet voice instructing him to breathe, but it’s much easier said than done.  His head throbs, the ache exploding into a pain he doesn’t know how to handle.

Is he dying?  Is this what dying feels like?  How is it possible to survive this much pain?   Mitch  squeezes his eyes shut, waiting and begging for the end, but there is no end.  Only an endless loop of agonizing torture.  He needs Scott.  Scott is the only person who can save him right now and he’s the only person that Mitch can’t have.  He can’t ever have him again.  

“I’ve got you,” he hears Kevin whisper in his ear.   I’ve got you.   The very same words Scott always whispered to him when he was having a panic attack.  Mitch doesn’t know how he knew this or even if he knew this.  Maybe he just chanced upon the words because he’s Kevin and Kevin does things most people can’t do.  He knows he can’t give Mitch what he needs but he wouldn’t be Kevin if he didn’t try anyway.  

I’ve got you.   It’s what ultimately breaks him.  A deep, raw gasp for air and then he’s sobbing so hard that he’s left breathless all over again.  

Denial is the cruelest stage of all. Mitch decides this when, one week after the funeral, he knocks on Scott's bedroom door to ask him what he wants from Starbucks.

The weight of remembering drags him to the floor, a familiar place by now, where he just lays and stares up at the ceiling, trying to recall what it was like before it all came crashing down.

Bargaining was short-lived and useless while it lasted. Nothing he could ever say or do would take back that night.  It wouldn't let him switch his place with Scott no matter how hard he hoped. But still. It gave him something to hold onto if only for a few hours.

At least he can pretend he has a sense of control when he's angry. There's no way he can hold back the boiling hot rage that wells up inside of him from time to time, but when he lashes out it makes him feel like he's on top. Adrenaline pumps through his entire body, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes and it makes him feel reckless and powerful. The sensation lasts only for a moment, and the higher he rises, the harder he falls sometimes just mere seconds later to see all the destruction he has left in his wake.

Depression hurts every inch of his body from the inside out. It turns him into someone else altogether. A ghost. A shell of a person, incapable of talking and moving, much less rising out of bed and getting dressed. It gives him the sense that he's floating in the blackness darkness imaginable. He can't see. He can't hear. He feels nothing and everything at once. It's a terrible feeling. Mitch wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. But when he sinks to his lowest of lows, everything stops. The world around him goes dark and silent and he's enveloped in a blanket of nothingness. He curls up underneath this blanket and sleeps. Sometimes depression eats him alive, but other times it lets him disappear and it's these times that he feels most drawn to; the times he yearns for more than anything else.

Screw accepting this. Mitch figures “the final stage” is rigged. It's something psychologists tacked on to the end of a long and dark tunnel to fool people think that it was going to be okay. Screw all of that. The cards. The flowers. The “I'm so sorry for your loss.” As if it's all a bridge meant to take him from Point A to Point B. From “Scott is Dead and I Can't Figure Out How to Keep Moving” to “Okay, I Still Miss Scott, But At Least I Have the Memories.” None of it, not even the memories though they are very precious to Mitch, make up for the fact that there's a Scott sized hole in his life. A void never to be filled.

Acceptance doesn't exist.

But denial does and oh, is she a deceitful little monster. Denial is a train wreck that happens over and over and over again. It's allowing yourself to forget and refuse to acknowledge reality. Screw acceptance, right? Denial is countless little moments of blissful ignorance. Picking up the phone to send a text. Seeing or hearing or thinking of something that Mitch tucks away so he can share it with Scott later on. Denial is anticipating a hug when finally sees him. It's knocking on his door to find out what kind of coffee he wants. It's letting yourself forget.

The second part of denial is the art of pretending wearing thin to reveal the unavoidable truth. Those countless little moments of blissful ignorance are followed by countless little moments of painful reminders. The unanswered text. The empty spot on their favorite couch. A permanent vacancy. The silence in the apartment that seems loud at the same time simply because Mitch can't ignore it. One coffee instead of two, though Mitch usually can't even find the strength to pick himself up off the floor once those reminders hit so make that zero coffees.

He misses Scott's hugs most of all. The way his arms would sneak around Mitch's smaller, slimmer body and pull him close to his chest. The way he felt strong and soft all at the same time, filling Mitch entirely with security and comfort. The way he always smelled of coffee or his favorite shampoo. The way he sometimes played with Mitch's hair and Mitch never truly hated it, long fingers carding absentmindedly through the dark strands. The way Mitch's head rested on his chest, positioned perfectly so he could feel the steady thump thump of his heart, a beat that is now stilled forever.

He stares up at the ceiling, watching the fan above his head whirl around so quickly that the blades all blur. He listens for an answer to his knock even though he knows one will never come because waiting and hoping is how he gets by these days no matter how useless it is. Because this can't be it. Not now. Not this way.

One day, he thinks. One day he'll answer. One day I'll hear his voice again. One day I'll see him smile again. One day I'll feel him hold me again.

The nausea that sweeps over him is swift and violent. It's the fastest he moves in days when he scrambles to his feet and rushes down the hall to get to the bathroom just in time. When he's finished losing the little he managed to eat earlier that morning, Mitch resumes his earlier position, curled up in a fetal position outside Scott's room.

He can't bring himself to go inside. Already, Scott's absence has created a hole in his life. Everywhere he turns, every time he blinks, he sees something that reminds him, and to go into his actual room. . . It'd be too much.

There's a knock at the door and then Mitch hears a knob click and turn. He closes his eyes. Not now, he prays. Please not now.

The door opens and soft footsteps echo in the quiet apartment. There's some kind of rustling sound that Mitch can't quite pick out, but he's almost positive who his visitor is.

“Mitch?”

Ah. Yes. Mitch glances up to find Avi staring down at him, eyes soft with despair and empathy, a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

Not again.

“I know. I know.” Avi slowly sinks down to the floor, joining Mitch. He sets the flowers aside and crosses his legs underneath him, leaning against the wall. “I'm sick of them too.”

“Then leave them,” Mitch says flatly. “That's what I do.”

“I left the others outside,” Avi replies, his gaze drifting over to the flowers on the floor beside him. “But I. . .  I had to bring these in.”

Lilies. Scott's favorite flower. He always said that if he ever had a daughter, he'd name her Lily. Mitch feels sick again and he closes his eyes until the worst of nausea passes him.

The cards. The flowers. All the gifts sent his way and the phone calls that come pouring in. He hates it all. Hates it all with a burning fiery passion that he can't hope to control. Like it's all some damn consolation prize for losing his best friend. How the hell are flowers going to fix anything? How the hell are the words, “I'm so sorry for your loss.” going to make him feel any better? What is he supposed to do with the letters and the cards and pictures from countless fans that he can't bear to open much less look at?

So he's thrown all the flowers away. Ignored all the calls. Stuffed the fan mail in black trash bags and piled them high in the empty storage closet. For later, he tells himself, because he feels bad for even thinking of just throwing it all away. He knows Scott would want him to at least look at it. He's just not ready. Mitch isn't sure he'll ever be ready. But every single day, more arrive. Every day they're delivered to the apartment and every day he leaves them out in the hall until the neighbors complain about being unable to move past all the packages.

Avi shifts his position until he's lying right next to Mitch on the floor. There are huge shadows under his eyes and he's very pale, making him look ill. “I called him again today,” he whispers. “Not because I forgot. I didn't. I just. I wanted to hear his voice.”

He knows all too well what Avi means. If Mitch isn't forgetting, he's longing to hear Scott's voice again. The warmth and familiarity, the comfort and security. The serenity. The love. He misses it with a ferocity is sure to kill him one of these days. He calls Scott too. Sometimes to hear that voice. But usually, because he forgets.

“I asked him if he wanted me to get him coffee this morning,” he tells Avi now. Not that he's trying to outdo him on the imaginary scale of sorrow. Far from it. They're just comparing notes. He just happens to be far more pathetic.

Avis expression is one of understanding. “I forget every morning.”

Mornings are the worst. A false promise of a new day, a new beginning. Hope that's snatched away in the blink of an eye. It's the first realization. Remembering that he has to make it through another day without his best friend.

Avi blurs and Mitch blinks tears from his eyes. He feels a hand lay lightly on his own, covering and shielding it in protection. The gesture says more than most words. Mitch knows there's nothing he needs to say to Avi to try and explain what he's thinking and feeling. Avi understands perfectly.

“I'm so tired,” he whispers eventually as one hot tear slides out of his closed eyes and rolls down the side of his face.

It's only been a week since the funeral. Just about two since. . . since it happened. “You just need time,” is something people keep telling him. “You'll be okay.” “It gets easier.” “You will be happy again one day.” His personal favorite was the “It’s always darkest before dawn.” card he burned as soon as he opened it.

This past couple of weeks has felt like an eternity without Scott. More time seems like an eternity of hell. Mitch can't fathom ever being okay again. Happiness is a foreign concept to him. As for darkness and dawn, there's no better or worse. All of it is excruciating. And he's tired.

Avi doesn't say anything. Mitch doesn't want him to. He just wants him to stay. He keeps his eyes closed, but is somewhat reassured by the bigger hand laying over his. The cool, smooth wooden floor feels good on the side of his face. He feels safest down here. If he's already down, he doesn't have to worry about falling.

How many different ways can you miss someone?

Grief has two sides.

There's the quiet, mostly unobtrusive side. Realizing that the one person who can make you feel better is the one person who can't be there. Learning to exchange “is” for “was”. Adjusting to the absence. Or. Trying.  It’s the one you can hide.  The one that allows you to say, “I’m fine.  Thank you for asking.” when people ask how you are even though you aren’t okay.  

Then there's the other side. The raw, agonizing, screaming pain. The pain the sets you on fire and drowns you at the same time. The pain that takes your breath away. It’s a raw anguish that makes it nearly impossible to function like a normal human being.

Mitch isn't sure which one is worse. They have both turned him into someone he hates.

He sits cross-legged on the floor, pondering his current state of existence. It never fails to amaze him how the world is still turning and he's still part of it. The sun rises and sets, he wakes and sleeps and somehow that qualifies as the whole “life goes on” mentality.

Kirstie squeezes his hand. “I'm right here,” she whispers.

He doesn't even try to smile. He just nods, wiping at the tears in his eyes before reaching for the first box. “So,” he begins, his voice wobbling. “I talked to his mom last night and she just asked for a few things.”

His voice sounds so off. So unlike him. His ears feel heavy and clogged, adding to the confusion. And the words, they feel so bizarre on his tongue. It's something, especially in context, he never imagined he would have to talk about.

It's been two months and he's left Scott's room untouched. Until now. Now everyone, including his therapist, tells him it's the best thing to do. “You'll never move on,” his therapist says importantly as if he has any idea at all how it feels.  

He doesn't want to move on. It sounds impossible. He's stuck right now and though it's exhausting and painful, it feels safer this way. “Moving on” sounds like stripping himself of all his limbs and saying, “I don't need them anymore to live a normal, happy life!”. Mitch hasn't lost any arms or legs, but it sure feels like he has. He didn't just lose a friend. He lost a physical part of himself and he'll never get it back. As far as he's concerned, there is no moving on from that.

But maybe if he goes through the motions, he can fool everyone into thinking that he's well enough to not be watched every minute of every day. So he didn't snap at Kirstie when she quietly suggested moving out, wondering if the apartment was just filled with too many painful memories. He smiled. Said he was fine. That he'd do something with Scott's things and then redo the room. Healthy, right?

So. Here they are. Kirstie looks like she doesn't want to be here any more than he does and for a second or two, Mitch considers asking her if she wants to escape the confined space and out into fresh air. Then a flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder remind him that there's no escaping. Not today at least.

Kirstie stares around the room, her eyes already filling up with tears. She blinks them away rapidly and a few escape and roll down her cheeks. “I don't know how to do this,” she admits. She lets her fingers trail across the soft material of the hoodie hanging on the closet doorknob, rubbing the strings between her fingers. She pulls the sleeve closer to her and presses her face against it, inhaling. Her eyes fill with fresh tears and this time she doesn't try to hide them. “It still smells like him.”

A stabbing pain has Mitch digging his fingernails into his palms, struggling in vain to stay on top of this new wave of anguish washing over him. He knows all too well what she means. The entire room smells of Scott somehow. After two months there's still a faint but familiar and unmistakable scent that should be comforting but is only a deep ache inside him. It's almost as if he can close his eyes for a second and then open them to find Scott standing right in front of him.

Maybe. . .

He can't help himself. Or maybe he's just trying to visibly hide the truth. No matter his intention, when he opens his eyes, it feels like he's hearing the doctor’s words all over again.

“I'm so sorry. We did everything we could.”

Mitch just wants to throw up.

A quiet sob breaks up his thoughts and he glances over at Kirstie, now clutching the hoodie to her chest as tears stream down her cheeks unchecked. “I miss him so much,” she says as Mitch wraps his arms around her. “So much.”

Her words are so simple. So plain. But they're the truth. Death needs no poetry verse to be described. Contrary to what some people may try to say, there’s nothing remotely beautiful about death.  It’s cold, sharp, and ugly.  It scrapes at you from the inside out until you’re raw and bleeding.  Who knew heartbreak was so literal?

“I just don't understand,” Kirstie whispers, the sobs wrenched painfully from her. “I don't understand how this just keeps getting worse.”

She's right. The “it gets better lie” is the biggest lie of them all. Every day he thinks that he's learned all the things there are to miss and every day he's given more reminders. Now, in Scott's room for the first time since it happened, there's no hiding. Loss is everywhere.

Kirstie pulls the hem of her shirt up and dabs at her face. “It's just that. . . seeing everything. Touching it. Knowing-”

Knowing that it's all they have left. Mitch tries to take a deep breath, a heavy sob choking him on its way out. “I need him, Kirst,” he says, gazing around the room at all the memories.

“We all do.”

He knows that he doesn't have the monopoly on pain. The amount of people who have suffered this catastrophic loss go beyond this room. Avi. Kevin. Scott's family. Mitch stands up, still holding tightly to Kirstie's hand. He's so afraid to let go of her.

He picks up the odds and ends sitting atop Scott's nightstand. His phone charger. A framed picture of the five of them with their first Grammy. His glasses case with the glasses still inside. Mitch sets the charger aside, trying not to think about how they have no need for it. The frame, he folds carefully so that his gaze doesn't linger too long. He still can't look at pictures without crying. This one should go to Scott's parents.

It's the glasses that stop him. The stupid glasses. His throat tightens and he forces himself to take a slow, deep, even breath. He takes the glasses out, holding the delicate frame in his hands and staring down at them.

“He hates these things,” he chokes out, his voice raspy. Hated. But Kirstie doesn't correct him. “He got his first pair a couple of days after he turned twelve and he was convinced that automatically made it the worst birthday ever.”

Kirstie snorts. She's wearing the hoodie now. It's way too big for her. It makes her look even tinier than she actually is. She wipes her tears with the long, oversized sleeves and leans in closer to look at the glasses. “You never told me that,” she says in a whisper. “Always the drama queen.”

Always. They both kind of flinch at that. It's worse than the is and was a mix-up.  That kind of stuff happens all the time, even now. Always is a reminder that happens less often and consequently is much more startling. “I thought he looked cute,” Mitch says as he places the glasses back in the case and snaps it shut. He feels like he's betraying Scott by using the proper tense.

There's a journal sitting on the nightstand too. Mitch sits and stares at it for so long that it's Kirstie who finally reaches out for it. She pulls it off the flat wooden surface and sets it in her lap where both she and Mitch resume their staring.

It's a plain journal. The cover is soft and royal blue. They've seen it countless times before. Scott was often scribbling in it. Song lyrics. Thoughts and ideas. The cover is worn and inside the pages are yellowed and tattered. Scott has stuffed sticky notes and index cards with additional scribbles inside and there's more than one loose page tumbling out.

Kirstie's fingers are shaking as she slides them between the pages and opens the book to a random spot. Mitch's eyesight blurs immediately upon seeing the familiar messy scrawl that was Scott's handwriting. The letters slant and slope all over the pages, words marching in uneven lines. He used to make fun of Scott for having the penmanship of a seven-year-old. Or a perpetually drunk ninety-year-old man.

Scott didn't get to live until he was ninety. The unfairness of it all makes Mitch want to scream. Twenty-five years old. The world is full of the worst of humanity living well into their eighties, nineties, and some of them have the nerve to reach triple digits. Scott died way too young. Before he could fulfill so many of his dreams. He'd never get the chance to marry or have kids. Never met Beyoncé. He never even got that dog he always wanted. Big and small, these dreams would never come true. And he'd never see anyone else realize their dreams.

That's part of what made Scott so special. His love of watching the dreams of other people come true. Helping them get there. Watching their faces light up with a joy that could not be described. Scott loved watching other people be happy. It made him happy too.

Mitch doesn't even have dreams anymore. His whole life is just a waking nightmare that'll only come to an end when he does.

Kirstie suddenly gasps and slams the notebook shut. She drops it as if she's been burned and stands quickly. “I can't do this,” she says, shaking her head as the tears begin to flow freely. A jagged sob is torn from her and Mitch is afraid she's going to break right in half right in front of him. “I can't, Mitch.”

He tries to speak. Opens his mouth to offer some words of wisdom or of comfort, but there's nothing. He's empty. A colossal hole inside him is eating him alive.

There are too many memories in here to take in and deal with at one time. He's kept the door closed on them for two months now. Opening the door was like peeling back the bandage to see the wound is still just as raw and open and bleeding as the very first day.

All of his clothes. The pictures. His bed. His keyboard. His laptop. Shoes. Another notebook with a strawberry on the front that Mitch never wants to look at. He hasn't touched the Superfruit channel. It seems wrong to deactivate it, taking all of those videos away from their fans. They've been deeply affected too, he reminds himself. The right thing to do would be to upload a video talking about Scott and all the memories they made together and how he'll always treasure them.

At least that's what his therapist says. It's important to talk about lost loved ones with others, sharing lessons learned and all that crap that Mitch can't begin to think of let alone talk about with other people. Every time he tries to do it, tries to talk about how he loved the way Scott's eyes crinkled up when he laughed, every time he tries to tell someone about the way Scott's spasmodic hand movements right before he sneezed made everyone laugh, every time he tries to say Scott's name aloud, his throat closes up and he feels like he's suffocating.

“He'd want us to,” Kirstie gasps. She brings one hand to her chest as if she's trying to keep herself together even though she hasn't been complete in months. “Mitch, he'd want us to find a way.”

“That's the worst part,” Mitch whispers. He lowers his gaze to the floor. Picking aimlessly at a loose thread in the run underneath him, he blinks back the ever present tears clouding his vision. “Kirstie, I feel like we're letting him down. He's not here anymore and we can't give him the one thing that he would want more than anything.”

“I think I know something he'd want more.”

Kirstie turns and Mitch looks up to see Kevin looming in the doorway. His gaze isn't entirely focused on them. Dark eyes move around the room drinking in everything. When he finally looks at them, Mitch is a bit taken aback to see something other than pain in his soft brown eyes. He stares at Kevin, studying him intently, unfamiliar with something besides suffering.

Kevin walks in slowly as if he's afraid of disturbing someone. Like Scott is asleep in bed, maybe sick, and he doesn't want to wake him up. He approaches Kirstie with care and gentleness that only he can, taking her arm and guiding her to the floor with him where they sit beside Mitch. “Avi’s on his way,” he answers their unspoken question. “I can call him and I can leave if you'd rather. I just. . . I didn't think it was right to leave you by yourselves.”

He's right of course. Kevin's nearly always right. Mitch and Kirstie can't do this on their own because they're not strong enough. Even together they're still too weak and vulnerable. It's too much all at once for them to handle. And it's not right for them to leave Kevin and Avi out of it, when they're also searching for something beyond the veil of grief.

Kevin takes one of Mitch's hands and Kirstie's in each of his own. The touch is warm and comforting. Mitch starts to wipe away the tear that's dripping off the edge of his nose and then stops. What's the point? There's always more.

“I think,” Kevin says slowly. His voice is unsteady, words laced with sorrow. “There's one thing that Scott would want more than for us to find a way to be okay. I think that more than anything else in the entire world, he would want to be here right now with us.”

Kirstie takes a shaky breath and Mitch squeezes Kevin's hand until it hurts. “He's not,” he manages to gasp out, the tears unending. How has he not run out? “He's not here, Kev.”

“He loved you,” Kevin's voice breaks. He's crying too now, but he doesn't let go of Mitch or Kirstie's hands to wipe away his own tears. “He loved you both so much. I want you to remember that about him before anything else. Because that's the most important thing about anyone. How they loved. And who they loved. Scott was the most passionate person I've ever met. And he loved harder than any person I've ever met. He told me once that he loved us so much that it hurt him sometimes.”

Mitch feels another hand slip into his free one and he glances over to see Avi sitting on his other side, between him and Kirstie. They sit on the floor of Scott's room together. Four, not five, but somehow it's the most complete he's felt since Before.

“Scott took that unmatched passion of his,” Kevin continues. “and he applied it to how he loved everyone in his life. His family. His friends. Even his fans. And that's why he would want to be here with us now. Because he always loved being with us. And I think in some ways,” he lifts his eyes and gazed around the room again before settling on Mitch. “I think he kind of is.”

Peace. That's what it is. The pain is still nearly overwhelming in Kevin's eyes and it hurts to look at, but the something else that Mitch noticed when he first walked in is peace. It's barely there. Just a hint, hidden deep underneath the surface. A teeny tiny glint of peace.

“He's in the pictures and the clothes and the bedding and the shoes and the music and the keyboard. He's in all of that. Of course, he is. But that's all materialistic. Great, and I think that a lot of it is important to hold onto, but not what matters most. What matters most is that we have him in the love that he gave us. Because that love is never going to go away.”

A sob wrenches out of Mitch, tearing all the way through his chest and burning all the way up his throat. He wants to scream. He wants to throw things. Break things. But he can't get up. He can't even move because Kevin and Avi are holding onto him so tightly. Holding him to the ground and keeping him from flying away into nothingness. Kirstie is there too, across from him. She's not touching him, but she's just as much there for him. Anchoring him.

“I think there's a very human part of us all, perhaps the most human part, that never lets us truly accept our loss. It protects us from what we never want to know.” Avi’s low voice rumbles over the sound of Mitch's sobbing. “I think that a part of me is always going to look for him in a room. It might get smaller and smaller as time passes, who knows? But I do know that it won't ever fully go away. And I'm glad. In a way.”

Glad? Mitch can't take much more of the forgetting and remembering. It's cruel.

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard,” Kirstie says softly. “Winnie the Pooh said that. I think it means that the more you love someone, the more it's going to hurt. But that also means that we were given more than we could possibly deserve in the first place.”

“And we'll always have love,” Avi adds. “Like Kevin said, Scott's love isn't going to go away. And I think. . . or at least I'd like to think that that means he's never going to go away. Not entirely.”

“I want him,” Kirstie voices what Mitch can't. She sounds tired. Defeated. She shifts, leaning into Kevin and resting her head on his shoulder. Her face is pale and her eyes are closed. “But you're right. What makes all of this so impossible is how much Scott loved all of us and how much we loved him. And if that stays with us, the love I mean, if that doesn't leave, then how can he?”

Mitch desperately wants to voice his agreement, but he can't get the words past the lump in his throat. Besides. He's just not sure if he really does believe what they're saying. Scott's absence is stronger in the presence of his three friends because they serve as reminders for who is missing. Mitch hates that. He hates that it makes things worse and better all at the same time. He hates how much it hurts to be with them. It should have to hurt this much.

“I still don't know how to do this,” Kirstie admits, her voice a soft whisper that tickles Mitch's ear as she leans in close.

“Together,” Avi replies. “Any way that we can.”

Grief is like falling into a deep, deep sleep. Heavy. Leaving a familiar reality and going to something strange and uncertain. Walking along a dark path where it's so easy to stray and become lost forever.

But even if the deepest of sleeps there is a time for waking up.

One morning Mitch realizes that he's out of toothpaste. The tube in the bathroom is completely empty and there are no extras in the hall closet where he and Scott, where he, keeps toiletries. In desperation, he gives the offending tube one last squeeze, so hard that his knuckles begin to whiten, and then tosses it in the trash can, a frustrated growl escaping.

But it's not just the toothpaste. His cabinets are practically bare and the fridge holds nothing but half a gallon of milk, some condiments, and a bag of apples. His stomach rumbles in the first time in what seems like ages. Of all days for his appetite to make an appearance.

Selecting the apple with the smallest bruise, Mitch shuts the door of the refrigerator and leans against it, gazing around the nearly empty kitchen and considering his options. It turns out there are very few and he's not a fan of any of them.

Option one: He could order some food. It's tempting at first. So much so that Mitch actually takes his phone out and scrolls through a page of nearby takeout selections. The idea of leaving the apartment still isn't the least bit appealing to him. Just the thought seems exhausting. But on the other hand, ordering take-out is a waste of money and not very healthy, not to mention incredibly lazy. And it definitely isn't going to solve the empty kitchen problem.

Option two: He could call someone. Kirstie is in Hawaii with Jeremy for the week, a much needed and deserved vacation for both of them. But Avi and Kevin are both around. They’d jump at the chance to meet up with him and grab a bite to eat. But he might as well just order take-out.

Option three: Really, it's the only option. Unavoidable. He was able to put it off for so long because everyone kept bringing him food until he asked them to stop a couple weeks ago. “I need to start doing things for myself,” Mitch had insisted. Being waited on hand and foot, whether it was voluntary or not, had given him no motivation. Not that he had any now.

But he really does need toothpaste.

“Okay,” Mitch says aloud, jumping at the sound of his voice in the quiet apartment. He's still not used to it. Even now he thinks that if he closes his eyes and listens closely, he'll hear Scott make fun of him for talking to himself.

Silence is painful.

Resolutely, Mitch jots down a few necessary items. The basics. Food. Toiletries. Coffee. He used a pad of paper and a pencil because it makes him feel more organized and less of a cheater than a list on his phone. Fresh apples. Bananas. Eggs. Bread. Chicken. Easy stuff so it isn't overwhelming. Baby steps, he tells himself. Baby steps. One thing at a time.

Shoes. Socks. Scott's too big t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. It's not the most fashionable but it's funcionable. Mitch is focusing on the aspect of becoming a functioning member of society so it works. Besides. It's comfortable.

List. Wallet. Keys. Phone. List. Wallet. Keys. Phone. He chants the four words in his head, using them as a way to keep himself anchored in the present. Depression has a way of making him feel lost and out of touch with reality. His therapist told him that it might help to look at his surroundings and acknowledge what he sees and what he needs so he's more aware. List. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Door. Lock. Leave.

It's always a bit of a surprise these days when he leaves the safety of the apartment to step out into the world to find that it's still spinning. Sunshine. People. Trees. Fresh air. It sort of feels nice but it also kind of makes Mitch feels like he's about to burst into flames. Baby steps.  List.  Wallet.  Keys.  Phone.  Like he’s learning how to do things all over again.  Or like he’s the Little Engine that Could.  

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.   The little grocery store is just a block away.  It’s a really nice day.  He can do this.  One step at a time.  One foot in front of the other.   Simple.  List.  Wallet.  Keys.  Phone.   I think I can.

The outside world is loud and bright.  People jostle him as they hurry by, as if it’s the end of the world if they’re three minutes late to their Pilates class.  Mitch keeps his gaze straight ahead, counting his steps by twos and using his grounding exercise.  Flowers.  Sky.  Crosswalk.  Cars.  Dog.  Other people.  So many people.  Breathe in, breathe out.

Time.  It’s exhausting.  Everything seems to be moving in slow motion.  Mitch constantly feels as though he’s moving through a very thick fog; so thick that he can barely walk.  He wants to turn around and head straight back to the apartment.  He wants to curl up in bed and go back to sleep.  He wants to lay down right here and now and shut out the world.  But he makes himself continue.  He keeps going.  

Stopping doesn’t work.  He’s tried that.  It only makes the pain worse.  Waiting for Scott to come back is like laying on a bed of nails and waiting for it to stop hurting.  The longing isn’t going to go away.  The hurt whenever he hears his best friend’s name or sees a picture of him or hears his voice in a song or a video is a permanent part of him.  It’s so bad sometimes that Mitch wants to throw up or just shut down altogether.  But it doesn’t work.

So he’s grocery shopping.  Because that’s what normal people.  It’s what he would do with Scott and it’s important that he does it without him, even though without is one of the worst words imaginable.   Without Scott.  

Mitch pauses right outside the store to take a deep breath.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Birds.  People.  Outside.  Door.  Inside.   I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

“Hey, watch where you're going!”

An older man, much taller and broad shouldered bumps into him on his way out.  Mitch staggers a little but steadied himself before crashing into a display case. The man hurries on, not bothering to cast a glance behind him and Mitch rolls his eyes. Good to know that people are still just as rude as he remembers. Some things never change. But then he catches sight of the display case he nearly fell into and it's all he can do to keep from shrinking right then and there.

Sometimes it's the little things that can make a person happy. A friendly smile from a stranger passing by. Seeing little kids play with a puppy. A bouquet of pretty flowers. But it's just as easy for the little things to make a person weep. Last night after showing, Mitch got dressed only to find out he had put his shirt on backwards and he was frustrated at himself when actual tears came to his eyes. The day before Kirstie and Jeremy left for their little vacation, she calls him in tears because she couldn't find her favorite pair of sunglasses. It's the fragility of emotions that can wear on someone. Reminders, both big and small can change the entire day.

It's a display case of olives that suddenly make it difficult for Mitch to see. Jars of olives that make him want to leave the store and never come back. Black and green olives that threaten to send him into another tailspin. Stupid, stupid olives.

Scott loved olives. Mitch could never find a taste for them, thought that they tasted like drowning in the ocean because of all the salt. Scott would eat them by the handfuls and then chase Mitch around their apartment trying to kiss him while Mitch would protest because of his “olive breath”.

Mitch hates absolutely everything.

List, he reminds himself, pulling the piece of paper out of the pocket of his jacket. Apples, bananas, bread, eggs, chicken. Toothpaste. Toilet paper. Coffee. Olives. Impulsively, he grabs a jar from the shelf and places it carefully in his shopping basket. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

Mitch rushes through the rest of the items on his list, eager to get out of the store. The fluorescent lighting hurts his eyes, so very different from the dark apartment. There's too many people, rushing around with harried, tense expressions like grocery shopping has just ruined their day completely. Like it's the worst possible thing imaginable. It's too loud; the music on the radio, coupled with frequent interruptions by the squawking of the intercom.

But he's none too thrilled by the idea of going back to the empty apartment so he sends a quick text to Avi and Kevin, asking them to join him for a small lunch. He's been trying to do this more often. Isolating himself it turns out, was probably the worst decision he could have ever made, and having his friends and family drop by unannounced only made him snippy at best and resentful at worst.

Avi and Kevin arrive shortly after Mitch's return, to find him sitting at the counter and eating olives straight from the jar. It's as pathetic as it gets but Mitch doesn't care. And he knows they don't care either. They sit next to him silently. Waiting. Wordlessly, he hands them each a plastic fork.

“Olives are disgusting,” he says when they've consumed half the jar. Kevin has been chewing on the same olive for nearly two minutes now and Avi has a slightly green complexion.

“I feel like I'm eating the ocean.” Avi admits. Kevin tries to be as subtle as possible lifting a napkin to his lips but Mitch finds himself smiling anyway.

“Disgusting,” he says again, tears filling his eyes. “I hate them. I tried to like them. But I hate them. I really tried.”

“It's okay,” Avi soothes. He’s so quiet and calm, just like always.  Mitch feels like a completely different person, but Avi is still the same.  Somehow.  A little sadder.  Older.  Sadness ages you in a way that time can’t.  But he’s Avi and he always will be.  

“I tried so hard,” Mitch whispers once more, letting his hands cover his face. They all know that he isn't talking about olives.

Kevin gently takes one of his hands, squeezing it in both of his own. “You're going to be okay, Mitch.”

For the first time in forever, Mitch might actually believe him.

Dear Scott,

Two steps forward, one step back. It's better than one step forward, two steps back. Or running in place. I'm getting somewhere. Slowly.  Very slowly. But surely. And quite honestly, I'm okay with that.

Well. It's a different kind of okay. But I've found a way to make it work. They tell me that they're proud of me and Kirstie always adds that you'd be proud of me too. I believe them. I believe her.

I miss you, Scotty. That will never go away. Losing you is a wound that will never fully heal. Every so often it opens back up like it's brand new and even when it doesn't, I can feel it. It's a part of me. It hurts so so so so bad, Scott. God, it hurts. I miss you. I don't think I can ever adequately describe how much I miss you. Sometimes it feels like I can't breathe. Sometimes I have panic attacks and the only one who can bring me back is you and you're gone. Sometimes it feels like I'll be lost forever.

But those days. . . they happen. . . frequently. But less frequently. Time doesn't heal all wounds but it does something. I don't want to say that it's easier because it's not. If I could do or say anything to bring you back to me today, I would do it in a heartbeat. But now there are more days when I think that I can do this. I have Kirstie. I have Kevin and Avi. I have our families and friends. I'll always have you in a sense. Just not in the way that I want.

My therapist told me to write letters to you instead of writing in a journal. I think it's actually helping? Who knew? I like to pretend that I'm talking to you so why not actually do it in a sense? So many questions. I'm sorry, Scott. I don't want to bombard you with questions. I just want to talk.

I was angry at you for a long time. I didn't realize it right away. How stupid of me to be angry at you for something that wasn't your fault? It wasn't anyone's fault. It was just a horrible, stupid, awful accident. But I was angry anyway. I was angry at you for leaving me. And for not coming back when I needed you the most. I just didn't want to admit it to myself or anyone else. That's what held me back for so long. I was just lost in this cloud of grief and anger and I didn't recognize myself. I wanted you to come back just so I could scream at you. How could you leave me like that? How could you leave me alone?

After all, this wasn't how we planned it at all. We were supposed to grow old together. We even promised to get married if we were both thirty-five and single. Dumb but so us. I always knew you were my soulmate anyway. I've never actually believed in a love other than ours. My best friend. I didn't want to grow old with anyone else. I love you, Scott. I always will.

I'm not angry anymore and I think, I know, that's been the biggest step for me. Towards healing? Acceptance? I don't know what to call it. Acceptance still seems fake. There's still a part of me waiting for you to come home, and I don't think I want that part to go away. So healing? I guess. Imperfect healing if you will. You took a piece of me with you and I'll always be incomplete without you by my side. But it's okay because I still have pieces of you.

My therapist, Sam, says it's okay if I still say “Scott is”  every now and again. But he also says I have to change the way I talk about certain things. I used to call “our” apartment, “the” apartment. I didn't even realize I was doing it until he pointed it out. I'm supposed to call it “mine” or “home”. He tells me to keep things personal rather than vague and distant. It's another thing to learn. What was “ours” is “mine”. It's the trade-off for saying “Scott is” even now. I think I understand it. “Mine” is better than “the”, but “ours” is better than both. I'm sorry for the grammar lesson or whatever. Sam is alright. You'd like him. You liked everyone. But he's a good guy.

He wants me to tell you about letting go and holding on. And changes. I hate changes. You know that, Scott. Remember when we were thirteen and you painted your bedroom? And this is so much bigger. This is so beyond me. Loss is a change that isn't meant to be understood by anyone, I think. I'm not alone in that.

Anyway. Change. It happens.

Kirstie and Jeremy set a date for the wedding. Next summer. She cried when she told me. A happy/sad kind of cry. She's scared. She knows she wants to spend the rest of her life with Jeremy but she wanted you to be there. She's not sure how she can get married without her best friend by her side. Jeremy has been nothing but supportive. Endlessly patient. He was even willing to elope or have a tiny ceremony at the courthouse. He was willing to wait as long as she needed and then to do whatever she needed. But we all know what you would have wanted for her. A party. A true celebration. I promise I make it all about her, Scotty. She'll get the wedding she deserves. We'll miss you. She told me that she knows it can't be the happiest day of her life without you there, but we will be happy. I promise. We'll miss you and we'll think of you but we will be happy. Happiness isn't a stranger anymore.

Avi met a girl. Her name is Ava. I'm not kidding. But she's amazing. You'd love her. An ER nurse. Super smart and sweet and kind and gentle. She likes the outdoors. She thinks dragons existed at some point in time. She can quote most of the Lord of the Rings movies. She's an amazing cook. And she can sing pretty well too! But most importantly, she's head over heels in love with Avi. When you died. .  . I still hate that word. When you left us, Avi tried so hard to be strong for us but I think we all forgot that he needed someone to be strong for him. He needed someone to lean on. He got really quiet and he didn't smile as much. More serious than we ever knew him. Too serious. It was like a light went out. He met Ava because he literally ran into her on the sidewalk one day. And he started to smile again, Scott. The light went back on.

I took your room. I didn't think you would mind. I gave most of your stuff to your family and then more of it to our friends. I kept some things for myself. Your glasses. Some clothes. Pictures. Your journals. Old pictures. Pieces of you.

I took your room because Kevin took mine. He moved in a couple of weeks ago. It's so much better already. The apartment, our apartment, is better. It's not empty anymore. It's a home again. Kevin's presence is. . . well, you know Kevin. I feel a sense of peace even when it hurts. He's a rock. He turned his sorrow and grief into something good. Of course he did. He's Kevin. He wrote a song for you. On Beyoncé. He didn't touch his cello for a while at first. Said that every time he looked at it he could hear your voice the first time he talked to you about joining our group. But when he finally did pick it back up again, he wrote a song for you and it's the most beautiful song I've ever heard, Scott. It's you through and through. I loved my eyes when I listen to it and I can see you. I can hear you. I can feel you. I told him this and he said that it was because he also wrote it for me. For all of us. I know. So Kevin. That's not all though. Kevin also wants to be a grief counselor. I can't imagine. I can barely hold myself together some days, I know I would never be able to do any good for someone else. But Kevin isn't me, obviously. Kevin is a much better, much stronger person. And he wants to use his grief to help others. Surprised? Me neither.

So yeah. Kirstie's getting married. Avi is talking about getting engaged. Kevin is living every minute to help other people. I'm in your room. With your stuff. Sorry, Scott. I hope you're not too disappointed.  If it's any consolation my therapist says I've made progress. I'm just trying to figure out what to do next. Sam says it's “really good” that I'm talking about “next”. See? Progress.

I don't know what to do without you. I've thought about singing. I think about it every single day actually. I haven't actually told anyone this. I mentioned once to Kevin that it's something on my mind from time to time and he encouraged me to try. I've always been afraid to try anything without you. But I know I can. It's just a question of how. So I thought I would write to you first. Baby steps.  

I miss you. I miss you so much. It hurts every single day. Some days are worse than others but I always miss you. I miss everything about you. Your hair. Your blue blue blue eyes looking at me. Your jaw (that's not too weird, right?). Your nose. Mouth. I miss your voice. Singing and saying my name. I miss your laugh. The way you always covered your mouth with both of your hands when you laughed I miss your hands. I miss your hold on me.

I miss your passion and your drive. I miss your determination that made the impossible possible. I miss your creativity that never ever stopped even if it was three in the morning and every sane person was asleep. I miss the way I'd sometimes wake up to you riffing in the shower or how sometimes you'd wake me up because you had an idea and you just couldn't wait. I miss how sleepy and excited your voice sounded at the same time when you talked about your latest and greatest three in the morning ideas.

I miss singing with you. I miss getting coffee with you. I miss writing with you. I miss throwing pillows at you at three in the morning. I miss making Superfruit videos with you. I miss laying next to you. I miss how safe you made me feel. I miss how beautiful you made me feel. I miss how loved you made me feel.  I miss talking to you. I miss you, Scotty. I'll always miss you and I'll always love you.

This probably sounds like a mess. But I'm a mess. But I'm getting better. I promise. I know it might now sound like it, but I really am. I couldn't have done this a month ago. Today, I can smile. Today, I can get out of bed. I can shower and dress and eat and walk and talk. I can do all of this without faking my way through the day. I can be happy. Some days I can't, but today I can. I can and I will.

I love you, Scott. Always and forever. Thank you for all you gave me and all you continue to give me. For taking care of me. For saving me. For making me brave. For changing me. For giving me the world. For giving me more than I could ever deserve or give back to you. Thank you for loving me. I promise that I won't stop. I love you.

Love, Mitch.