SAME BUT DIFFERENT
NORA
I arrive late.
My flight is delayed, then the drive from the airport takes longer than it should, and by the time I step out of the car the air already smells like damp earth and eucalyptus.
Eden always smells like memory.
The chapel is already full. Eden's only chapel—a small white building with wooden pews worn smooth by generations of grief and celebration, stained glass windows casting colored light across the worn floorboards.
I try to slip in quietly, keeping to the back, but the moment I step through the heavy wooden doors I know it's useless.
The hinges creak.
Heads turn.
My chest tightens. My body remembers before my brain does.
Someone is speaking. I recognize the voice instantly.
Nate.
My heart stops. My knees weaken.
He stands at the front, shoulders squared but tense, hands clasped together like he's holding himself upright through sheer will.
He's talking about Alfie—about his stubborn kindness, about the way he fixed things that didn't want to be fixed, about how he showed up when it mattered, even when it was inconvenient or painful.
The words are steady, measured, but I hear the strain beneath them, the way his voice catches on certain syllables.
This isn't rehearsed. This is love trying to survive loss.
I'm trying to be invisible. Trying to slip into the back pew unnoticed. Trying to breathe through the sudden, overwhelming reality that I'm in the same room as him for the first time in years.
But when he looks up I watch it happen in slow motion.
The exact moment his eyes find mine.
The way his entire body goes rigid—not tense, but frozen, like someone hit pause on his existence.
The way his hands grip the podium so hard his knuckles go white.
The way his mouth opens slightly, the words he was speaking dying mid-sentence.
And then our eyes lock.
And the entire world splits open.
Not slowly. Not gently.
It ruptures—like a dam breaking, like glass shattering under pressure, like every carefully constructed wall I've built around the memory of him crumbling to dust in an instant.
My lungs seize. I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't do anything except stand here being completely unmade by the way he's looking at me.
Like I'm an apparition. A hallucination. Something his grief-stricken mind conjured that can't possibly be real. His face drains of color. His chest rises and falls rapidly, like he's drowning in open air.
And the look in his eyes—
God, the look in his eyes.
It's everything I've spent years trying to forget.
Recognition. Devastation. Longing so acute it's practically a physical force radiating across the sixty feet between us.
Like he's seeing a ghost.
Like I've returned from the dead.
Like the universe just played the cruelest trick imaginable by putting us in the same room again.
The silence stretches and becomes something alive and terrible.
People are starting to notice. I can feel their attention shifting—the collective awareness that something is wrong, that the eulogy has stopped, that the man at the front has completely lost his composure.
But I can't look away.
Can't break the connection even though every self-preservation instinct I have is screaming at me to run.
Because he's looking at me like I'm the reason gravity exists.
Like seeing me has rearranged every atom in his body into a completely new configuration. Or maybe that’s just me feeling that.
Either way, I'm looking at him the same way.
Because all these years hasn't changed a damn thing.
And this is what I was most afraid of.
How is it even possible to feel this much from a single look?
How can five years dissolve in seconds like they never existed?
How does one person—one man I haven't spoken to in years—still have the power to rewrite my entire nervous system just by existing in the same room?
It doesn't make sense.
None of this makes sense.
I shouldn't feel this. Shouldn't be standing here with my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest, with my hands shaking, with every carefully constructed boundary I've built crumbling to nothing.
I tried to forget him.
God, I tried so hard to forget everything I ever felt for him.
Convinced myself it was just first love. Just intensity. Just the kind of all-consuming feeling you have when you're young and don't know any better.
I built a whole life in LA. Wrote books about other people's love stories while pretending mine didn't still live under my skin like a scar that never quite healed.
And one look.
One fucking look across a funeral chapel and it's all gone.
Every wall. Every defense. Every lie I've told myself about being over this, being over him.
The guilt hits me like a physical blow.
I have no right to feel this.
No right to be standing here feeling like I'm being torn apart and put back together simultaneously.
I have a fiancé. A life. A future that doesn't include the man currently looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
And yet.
There's no chapel, no funeral, no witnesses.
Just him and me and the catastrophic realization that distance was always an illusion.
That you can run for seven years and it doesn't matter.
That some connections don't fade—they just wait.
Patiently.
This was a bad idea.
Such a fucking bad idea and now I’m paralysed.
His hands are shaking against the podium. I can see it from here—the tremor, the white-knuckled grip, the way he's holding on like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
And I realize I'm shaking too.
Someone shifts beside him—it’s Lydia. She touches his arm gently and that's what breaks it.
That small touch grounds him just enough to remember where he is. What he's supposed to be doing.
I watch him blink. Watch him forcibly tear his gaze away from mine even though it looks like it costs him everything.
Watch him swallow hard and try to find his place in the eulogy he was giving before I walked in and detonated his world.
"Sorry," he says, and his voice is wrecked. Raw. Nothing like the measured tone from before. "About building a life after loss."
I can barely hear him over the roaring in my ears but finally manage to look away—have to, before I do something catastrophic like run to him or collapse or start crying in the middle of Alfie's funeral.
My hands find the back of the nearest pew.
I grip it hard enough that the wood bites into my palms.
Trying to ground myself. Trying to remember how to breathe.
Trying not to completely fall apart.
My mom turns around from the front row, her eyes widening when she sees me. Her smile is soft, relieved, tinged with something that looks like hope.
I give her a small nod, hoping she can read the apology I don't yet know how to say.
Nick is beside her with Ollie and Mia beside him, her hand resting on her belly. Lydia sits on her other side, tissues clutched in her hand.
All of them together. All of them, people I love more than I know how to explain. And somehow, sitting here among them, I've never felt more out of place.
The service continues.
People share stories—about Alfie's wisdom, his endless patience with customers who browsed for hours without buying, the way he knew exactly which book you needed before you did.
Someone talks about how he kept the store open late when their daughter needed a quiet place to study. Another mentions the reading group he started for kids who struggled with literacy.
I listen, but I'm not really hearing.
I'm too aware of Nate at the front, too conscious of the way my heart is hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
When the service ends, people drift towards the front of the chapel where quiet conversations start.
It reminds me too much of my dad's funeral. I hate how this place has brought more heartbreak than anything else.
Just a few days. I tell myself. You can do this.
"Nora!"
I turn and Ollie's already closing the distance between us, pulling me into a hug that squeezes the air from my lungs.
"You're here," he says into my hair. "I wasn't sure you'd make it."
"I almost didn't," I admit, pulling back to look at him. "Flight got delayed and traffic was a nightmare.”
"But you’re here.” His eyes are red-rimmed, tired. "That's all that matters."
Mia appears beside him, one hand resting on her belly. She looks exhausted in that bone-deep way grief demands, but she manages a small smile when she sees me.
"Look at you, Mama," I say softly.
"I'm so happy you're here." She reaches out and squeezes my hand. "I'd hug you, but…" She gestures towards her growing belly. "It's good to see you, Nor. We both missed you."
"I missed you guys too. How are you feeling?"
She laughs, the sound a little watery. "Pregnant and sad. It's a strange combination."
"I can imagine."
Ollie's arm is still around my shoulders, like he's afraid I might disappear if he lets go.
"So, how long are you staying?"
"I don't know yet," I say honestly.
"You're staying for the shower though, right?" Mia asks, and there's something careful in her tone.
"Yeah." I look down at my hands. "I think I will."
“Fuck yeah,” Ollie says firmly. Then, quieter: "I'm glad you're here. I know things have been—" He stops, searching for the right word. "Busy."
Busy. That's one way to put it.
"Too busy," I say.
Mia shifts her weight, wincing slightly. Ollie's hand immediately goes to her lower back, steadying her, and something about the automatic nature of it makes my chest ache.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Fine. Baby's just heavy." She looks at me then, really looks at me, in that direct way she has. "Lydia's planning the baby shower for next Saturday because knowing our child, it'll decide to make a surprise appearance before it's meant to."
I think about LA. About the studio meeting on Tuesday that I'm supposed to be at. About the life waiting for me that feels less like mine with every day I spend here.
"I think I'll be here for about two weeks," I say finally, and the words feel like more than just an answer about a party.
Mia's smile widens. "Really? Oh my God! You might be here for the birth then."
"Plus," Ollie adds, "you're going to be an aunt. That's a big deal."
"I know." My voice catches. "I'm really proud of you, Ol. Both of you."
He pulls me in for another hug, and this time I let myself sink into it. Let myself feel the safety of my brother's arms, the way he's always been the steady one, the one who holds things together when everything else falls apart.
"I've missed you," he says quietly, just for me.
"I've missed you too."
When we pull apart, Mia is watching us with soft eyes.
"You're coming by the house later, right?" she says.
"Uh, yeah. Kind of have to. Lydia won't let me book a room at the Country Club, so I'll be staying at the lakehouse."
"Good." She squeezes my hand again. "Well, I need to go home and change my shoes, so we'll see you later on."
I nod. "Sounds good. I'll see you both later."
People are really starting to filter out of the chapel now, moving toward their cars, talking in low voices about heading to the lake house.
I scan the crowd almost unconsciously, looking for a set of hazel coloured eyes. But it's not his eyes I find. It's my mom's, wide and warm and filling with tears the moment she sees me.
She's standing with Nick and Lydia near the chapel entrance, the three of them clustered together the way people do when they're holding each other up through grief.
Mom breaks away from them immediately, crossing the space between us.
"Sweetheart," she says, pulling me into a hug that smells like her perfume and coffee and home. "I'm so happy you decided to come."
She looks around, wondering if Wes came too, but we both know she knows he wouldn't have.
"I'm sorry I was late."
"You're here now." She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face like she's cataloging all the ways I've changed since she last saw me. "That's what matters."
Nick joins us, his expression softer than I've seen it in years.
"Good to see you, Nora." He says as he pulls me in for one of his uniquely Nick hugs.
"You too and I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you. It was Uncle's time to go. I'm just glad I was there when he went."
Lydia appears beside him, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. When she sees me, her face crumples slightly before she composes herself.
"Oh my goodness, you have gotten more stunning with age, my girl."
"Hi, Lyds." I hug her and she embraces me back.
"I missed your beautiful face around here," she says, holding my face between her hands.
The guilt sharpens, cuts deeper.
Over Lydia's shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Nate through the chapel doors. He's talking to someone, head bent, listening intently.
My heart lurches, and suddenly the walls feel too close, the air too thin.
"Hey uh, I should go," I say, stepping back. "Get settled at the house before the gathering."
Mom's eyes narrow slightly, like she can read exactly what I'm doing, but she doesn't call me on it.
"Alright. We'll just make sure everyone leaves here then we'll see you back home?"
"Yeah. I'll be there."
I hug them each quickly, then slip out a side door before Nate can turn around and see me.
Before I have to face him again in front of everyone.