Chapter 25
Marco
T he morning after the funeral arrives without any clear sense of transition, as if the night in between never fully settled into rest, and I wake in the unfamiliar stillness of the hotel room with the same pressure sitting behind my ribs that I carried into sleep, a low, persistent weight that has less to do with exhaustion and more to do with everything I chose not to address before closing my eyes.
The curtains are half-drawn, letting in a strip of gray light that does not quite qualify as morning so much as the suggestion of it, and I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, aware of the quiet in a way that feels too complete, too removed from the noise and movement of the day before, as if the world has pulled back and left me alone with the part of myself I have been avoiding.
I know what the first thought will be before it arrives, and that awareness does not stop it from coming, does not soften the impact of it when it settles into place with a clarity I cannot deflect.
You didn’t call her.
The words do not carry accusation so much as fact, and the absence of emotional framing makes them harder to ignore, because there is no angle from which to reinterpret them, no way to shift the meaning into something less direct.
I turn my head slightly, my gaze landing on the small desk across the room where my phone rests exactly where I left it the night before, face down, as if that position alone could create enough distance to justify the choice behind it.
I tell myself I will call her now.
The decision forms with a kind of immediate resolve that feels convincing in the moment, a correction rather than a continuation, something that aligns with what I know I should have done already, and I push myself up onto my elbows, reaching toward the edge of the bed with the intention of following through before I can second-guess it.
But the moment stretches, the space between intention and action widening just enough for something else to move in, something quieter but more persistent, threading through the resolve with a familiar kind of hesitation that I recognize even as I try not to engage with it.
What would you say.
The question is not new, not unexpected, but it lands with more weight now, in the stillness of the morning, in the absence of distraction, forcing me to consider the reality of what that call would require, not just the act of dialing her number, but the explanation that would have to follow, the acknowledgment of the silence, the recognition of what that silence means coming from me, given everything that came before.
I sit up fully, my feet finding the floor with a dull, grounding impact that does nothing to steady the direction my thoughts are moving in, because the problem is not the environment, not the lack of clarity about what needs to be done, but the internal resistance that builds as soon as I try to move toward it, the same resistance that has shaped too many decisions in the past for me to pretend I do not recognize it now.
I push a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees, the posture instinctive, almost automatic, as if my body has learned how to position itself when my mind reaches this particular kind of impasse.
I could call her. There is nothing physically stopping me, no external barrier, no practical limitation that would prevent it from happening in this moment.
The barrier is internal.
It always is.
I think about her voice in the message she left, the way she kept it even, controlled, offering concern without pressure, giving me space even when I did not ask for it, and the memory settles into something that feels heavier now than it did when I first heard it, because distance has a way of clarifying what proximity allows you to avoid.
She reached out. She made it easy for me to respond.
She gave me exactly the kind of opening I would have needed if the situation were reversed.
And I did nothing.
The recognition of that does not come with immediate action, does not translate into movement the way it should, and that disconnect, that gap between understanding and response, is where everything starts to unravel in a way I cannot easily control, because it forces me to confront not just this moment, but the pattern it fits into, the repetition of choices that all lead back to the same outcome, regardless of the circumstances surrounding them.
I stand abruptly, the motion sharper than necessary, and move toward the bathroom, turning on the sink and splashing cold water over my face with more force than required, as if the physical sensation might interrupt the loop my thoughts have fallen into, might reset something that has been building beneath the surface for longer than I have allowed myself to acknowledge.
The water runs down into the basin, the sound steady, consistent, offering a focal point that I can latch onto long enough to reestablish a sense of control, but the underlying tension remains, coiled and waiting, not resolved, just temporarily redirected.
By the time I step out of the hotel room, the decision has shifted without fully resolving, the initial resolve diluted into something less defined, less immediate, and I tell myself I will call her after I get through the rest of what I need to do here, after I handle the logistics that remain, the practical details that justify my presence in this place for a little longer, the small tasks that feel more manageable than the larger one I keep postponing.
The day moves in fragments, in interactions that require just enough of my attention to keep me anchored without demanding anything deeper, conversations with people who share a common understanding of what has happened without needing to articulate it in ways that would make it more real than it already is, and I move through them with the same controlled detachment I relied on the day before, offering what is expected, holding back what is not.
It is easier here.
Easier to stay in a space where everything revolves around a shared loss, where my silence is not unusual, where the weight I am carrying blends into the weight everyone else is carrying in ways that make it less distinct, less isolating.
The problem is not here. The problem is what waits beyond it, what exists outside of this contained environment, what I have left unresolved in a different place, with a different person, who does not share this context, who does not have the same framework to interpret the silence I have created.
By the time I return to the hotel in the late afternoon, the quiet of the room feels heavier than it did in the morning, not because anything has changed externally, but because the space for avoidance has narrowed, the excuses I have been leaning on losing some of their effectiveness as the day progresses without the action I keep telling myself I will take.
The phone is still where I left it.
I pick it up this time without hesitation, the motion decisive, the intention clear enough to override the initial resistance, and I scroll to her name, my thumb hovering over the call button as the reality of the moment settles into place with a kind of inevitability that makes it difficult to retreat without acknowledging what I am doing.
I press call.
The ringing starts, steady and measured, each repetition marking a point of no return that I have been avoiding for days, and for a moment I focus on that, on the sound itself, on the fact that I have crossed the threshold between intention and action, that I have done something concrete instead of thinking about it.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The call goes to voicemail.
The shift is immediate, subtle but unmistakable, the small, irrational expectation that she might answer giving way to the reality that she has her own life, her own schedule, her own reasons for not being immediately available to me, and the irony of that does not escape me, the recognition of how easily I assumed access without offering it in return settling into something that feels uncomfortably close to consequence.
I listen to the voicemail prompt, and for a second I consider leaving a message, something simple, something that acknowledges the delay without diving into an explanation I am not prepared to give over a recording, but the words do not come, not in a way that feels sufficient, and the hesitation returns, stronger now, reinforced by the gap between what I should say and what I am actually capable of saying in this moment.
I end the call without leaving a message.
The silence that follows is different from the one I have been maintaining, less controlled, less intentional, and I stand there for a moment, the phone still in my hand, aware of the choice I have just made layered over the choices that came before it, each one reinforcing the pattern in ways that make it harder to justify as anything other than what it is.
I set the phone down on the desk, the movement slower this time, more deliberate, as if acknowledging the weight of it requires a different kind of care, and I step back, creating physical distance from it that mirrors the emotional distance I have been trying to manage, but the separation does not bring relief, does not simplify anything the way I might have hoped.
If anything, it clarifies it.
I should have called sooner.
I should have answered when she reached out.
I should have said something, anything, that made it clear I was not disappearing in the same way I have before.
The recognition of that does not come with a clear path forward, does not resolve into a plan that feels actionable, and that uncertainty, that lack of direction, feeds into the same instinct that has been guiding me all along, the one that favors delay over confrontation, distance over engagement, control over vulnerability.
I tell myself I will try again later.
The justification feels thinner now, less convincing, but it is still enough to hold onto, still enough to prevent immediate action, and I lean into it because the alternative requires a level of clarity I have not reached yet, a level of self-awareness that demands more than I am prepared to give in this moment.
The evening settles in slowly, the light outside the window fading into something softer, less defined, and I move through the room with a restlessness that does not translate into productive action, the energy there but not directed, circling without landing in a way that feels familiar, if not comfortable.
I think about her more than I let myself acknowledge, the way she would be moving through her own day, the rhythm of the café, the conversations, the small moments that make up the life she has built in Silver Pine, and the contrast between that and where I am now, what I am doing, what I am not doing, becomes harder to ignore as the hours pass without resolution.
By the time I lie down again, the room dark except for the faint light filtering in from outside, the same thought returns, not as a question this time, but as a recognition that has been building beneath everything else.
You are doing it again.
The difference now is that I cannot pretend I do not see it, cannot frame it as something circumstantial or temporary without acknowledging the pattern it fits into, the repetition of choices that all lead to the same outcome, regardless of the intent behind them.
I close my eyes, the weight of that recognition settling into something that does not dissipate with time or distance, and for a moment I consider reaching for the phone again, trying once more to bridge the gap I have created, but the hesitation remains, the uncertainty still strong enough to override the impulse, and I let the moment pass without acting on it, the silence extending into another night, another space where the connection remains unaddressed.
Tomorrow.
I will call her tomorrow.
The thought settles into place with less conviction than it had the day before, but I hold onto it anyway, because it is still something, still a point of potential movement in a situation that has become increasingly defined by inaction.
For now, that is all I have.
And for now, it is not enough.