Chapter 23
Marco
T he airport feels too bright for something that is supposed to be about loss, the overhead lights reflecting off polished floors in a way that makes everything look sharper than it should, more defined, more immediate, as if the world has decided to keep moving at full clarity even when the reason I am here demands something quieter, something dimmer, something that allows for the kind of distance I have spent years trying to build between myself and moments like this.
I move through the terminal with a kind of practiced efficiency that has nothing to do with calm and everything to do with control, keeping my pace steady, my focus narrow, my attention fixed on the next step instead of the accumulation of everything surrounding me, because the noise is already starting to press in at the edges, voices overlapping in a way that does not quite settle into anything I can separate cleanly, announcements cutting through in tones that feel too close to commands, too close to something I have learned to respond to without thinking.
I tell myself it is just an airport, just people moving from one place to another, just the ordinary mechanics of travel, and for a while that holds, enough to get me onto the plane, enough to keep my breathing steady as I take my seat and fasten the belt across my lap with a deliberate motion that feels more grounding than it should, but once the cabin doors close and the space narrows into something contained, something I cannot step away from if I need to, the edges of that control begin to thin, the noise compressing into a lower, more constant pressure that I cannot filter out as easily.
I focus on the physical details, on the feel of the seat beneath me, the weight of my hands resting against my thighs, the slow rise and fall of my breath, counting in a way that has become habit whether I want it to or not, because the alternative is letting my mind move too far ahead, letting it connect this moment to others that share too many similarities to ignore.
The funeral home is quieter than I expect, which should be a relief, but it is not, because the quiet here is not empty, not neutral, but filled with something dense and unspoken, a collective weight that settles into the walls and the carpet and the way people move through the space as if any sudden motion might break something fragile.
I recognize some of the faces, men I have seen before in different contexts, different uniforms, different versions of ourselves that feel both familiar, yet distant, and there is a brief exchange of nods, of acknowledgment that does not require words because words are too heavy here, too likely to open something that cannot be contained once it starts.
Alvarez’s mother stands near the front, her posture straight in a way that feels intentional, as if holding herself upright is the only way to keep from collapsing under the weight of what has been placed on her, and when someone introduces me, when my name is spoken in a space where it does not belong anymore, not in the way it once did, I step forward without thinking, offering condolences that feel inadequate the moment they leave my mouth, because there is no language for this that does not sound hollow when it is spoken aloud.
She takes my hand in both of hers, her grip firm, her eyes searching my face with a kind of intensity that makes it difficult to hold her gaze for long, and when she thanks me for being there, for coming all this way, I nod because there is nothing else I can do, nothing that would make this moment less unbearable for her or less complicated for me.
The service begins, and I take a seat toward the back, not out of disrespect, but out of instinct, because proximity feels dangerous in ways I cannot fully articulate, and from here I can see everything without being seen as closely in return, can track the movement of people as they stand, as they sit, as they bow their heads in unison, the rhythm of it all too structured, too familiar, the cadence of the words spoken at the front blending into something that echoes against memories I have spent years trying to separate from the present.
When the flag is folded, when it is handed over with careful precision, the gesture deliberate and practiced, something shifts inside me in a way that bypasses thought entirely, the visual pulling me somewhere else without permission, without warning, and I feel the first crack in the control I have been holding onto since I stepped into this building.
It is not just this moment. It is all of them.
The sound of boots on uneven ground, the sharp crack that follows too closely, the weight of someone in my arms that should not feel that heavy, the frantic calculations running through my head as I try to assess, to prioritize, to fix something that is already beyond fixing, the voices around me rising in urgency, in command, in fear, and for a second the room in front of me disappears entirely, replaced by something louder, hotter, more immediate, until I force my focus back to the present with a kind of effort that feels physical, grounding myself in the sight of the casket, the arrangement of flowers, the muted colors of the room, anything that reminds me where I am now instead of where my mind is trying to take me.
I breathe in slow counts, the way I have been taught, the way I practice when things start to slip, but the edge remains, the sense that everything is just slightly out of alignment, that the distance between this moment and the ones it resembles is thinner than it should be, and I know from experience that staying here, sitting still, letting it build without release, is not something I can manage for long without consequences I do not want to deal with in a room full of people who are already carrying more than they should.
When the service ends, when people begin to move again, to speak in low voices, to offer support in ways that feel both necessary and insufficient, I step outside without drawing attention to it, the cool air hitting me harder than expected, sharper, cleaner, cutting through the density of the space I just left behind.
I walk a few steps away from the entrance, far enough that the voices inside become indistinct, the noise reduced to something I can manage, and I stand there for a moment, hands braced on my hips, eyes fixed on a point in the distance that does not require anything from me.
I should call her.
The thought comes without hesitation, clear and immediate, cutting through everything else in a way that feels almost foreign given how long I have been avoiding it, and with it comes the image of her standing behind the counter at the café, her expression steady, her movements precise, the way she looks at people when she is fully present, fully engaged, a kind of focus that has always felt grounding in ways I do not fully understand.
I think about the last time I saw her, the way I left, the lack of explanation, the assumption that she would understand something I did not bother to put into words, and the realization settles in with a kind of quiet certainty that I have done this before, that this pattern is not new, not accidental, but something I default to when the pressure builds beyond what I know how to handle.
I reach for my phone before I can stop myself, pulling it from my pocket with a motion that feels both instinctive and deliberate, and when the screen lights up, when her name appears in the missed calls and messages that have been waiting for me to acknowledge them, something in my chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with the service I just left and everything to do with the space I have created between us in the days since I got the call about Alvarez.
Her voicemail is there.
I know it before I press play, know the tone of it without hearing it, the way she would keep her voice controlled, measured, offering concern without accusation, giving me space even when I have not earned it, and for a moment I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen as if delaying this will somehow change what it contains, what it represents, the proof of her reaching out into a silence I have chosen not to break.
When I listen, her voice lands exactly the way I expect it to, steady, restrained, asking if I am okay, telling me I do not have to call back right away, just to send something when I can, and the simplicity of it, the lack of pressure, the openness of it, hits harder than anything else has today, because it leaves no room for me to justify the way I have handled this, no way to frame it as something reasonable or necessary without acknowledging the part of it that is entirely on me.
I should call her.
The thought returns, stronger this time, more insistent, and I know I could do it, know that it would take less than a minute to press the button, to bring her voice into this space, to close the distance I have been maintaining without fully admitting that I am maintaining it, but the idea of it, the reality of what that call would require, begins to unravel the fragile control I have managed to hold onto through the service, through the travel, through the accumulation of everything I have not let myself process fully yet.
What would I say.
The question is not rhetorical, not abstract, but immediate and pressing, because I do not have an answer that feels sufficient, not one that explains the gap, the silence, the choice to leave without anchoring anything in place before I did, and the truth of it, the part I do not want to put into words, is that I do not trust myself to be what she needs in this moment, not when I can barely hold onto the version of myself that functions on a basic level, not when the line between control and collapse feels thinner than it has in months.
I tell myself I will call her when I am back, when I have space to think clearly, when I can offer something more than fragments and distraction, something that does not pull her into this in a way that could do more damage than distance ever would, and the logic of it settles into place with a kind of deceptive ease, the justification aligning with the instinct to withdraw, to contain, to isolate until I can reestablish a version of myself that feels safe to be around other people.
It is the same logic I have used before.
I recognize that even as I lean into it, even as I slide the phone back into my pocket instead of pressing call, the awareness there but not strong enough to override the pull of what feels easier in the moment, what feels like control even if I know, somewhere beneath that, that it is anything but.
The rest of the afternoon passes in pieces, in interactions that require just enough of my attention to keep me anchored to the present, conversations that move around the edges of what has happened without settling into anything too direct, too heavy, and I navigate them the way I always do, offering what is expected, withdrawing when I can, keeping the internal pressure contained behind a surface that appears steady enough not to draw concern.
By the time I get back to the hotel, the quiet of the room feels both welcome and dangerous, the absence of external input leaving too much space for everything I have been holding back to move forward without resistance, and I drop my bag near the door, move toward the small desk by the window, and stand there for a moment without sitting, without doing anything that might signal a shift into rest, because rest implies a level of calm I have not reached yet.
I take the phone out again, the weight of it familiar now, more significant than it should be, and I look at her name on the screen, the missed call, the message, the evidence of a connection I have not maintained in the way I should have, and the pull to fix it, to correct it, to close that gap, rises again with a force that is difficult to ignore.
I will call her tomorrow.
The decision settles into place with a kind of finality that feels solid in the moment, reasonable, contained within a timeline that allows for delay without outright avoidance, and I hold onto that, onto the idea that this is temporary, that the distance I am creating now is something I can bridge later without consequence, without recognizing fully what I am risking by letting it stretch even one day further.
Tomorrow feels close enough to justify waiting.
It always does.
And for now, that is enough for me to set the phone down, to turn away from it, to move through the rest of the evening without addressing what I know, even as I choose not to act on it, that the silence I am maintaining is not neutral, not harmless, but something that carries weight whether I acknowledge it or not.
I tell myself I will fix it.
Tomorrow.