Lila
Hampton, Virginia
The morning of the memorial dawns gray, the sky heavy with clouds that mirror the weight in my chest. The light seeping through my bedroom window feels colder, harsher, like the sky itself is mourning.
I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing down the simple black shift dress that clings to me like the grief I can’t shake.
My black ballerina flats are lined up neatly by the door, waiting, like me.
My hair is pulled into a neat French twist, each pin secured with precision, a fragile attempt to hold myself together when everything inside feels like it’s unraveling.
I skip the foundation, the blush, the lipstick.
None of it matters. The only thing I apply is waterproof mascara, knowing it won’t stand a chance against the tears that are already threatening to fall.
I stare at my reflection, at the hollowness in my eyes, and wonder how the world can keep spinning when someone like Ryan isn’t in it anymore.
Logan arrived home last night, but he didn’t want to see me. He asked for space, and I gave it to him, even though doing so felt like holding my breath in a room with no air. I wanted to be there, to hold him, to anchor him, but grief doesn’t follow logic. It has its own rules.
When the knock finally comes, it’s soft, almost hesitant, and my heart stumbles. I slip on my flats, take one last shaky breath, and open the door.
Logan stands there in his service dress, his flight cap perfectly positioned, but he’s a shadow of the man I know.
His left arm is in a sling. But it’s not the injury that guts me, it’s his face.
His eyes are hollow, rimmed with red, his jaw clenched like it’s the only thing keeping him from shattering completely.
He rips his flight cap from his head as the fragile grip he has on his composure snaps.
His face crumples, and he sways slightly, like the weight of everything is finally too much.
I step forward without thinking, wrapping my arms around him carefully, mindful of his injury, but desperate to hold him.
“I’m here,” I whisper, my voice trembling as much as my hands. “I’ve got you.”
He sinks into me, his good arm wrapping around my waist with a desperation that steals my breath.
His body trembles against mine, silent sobs wracking through him as he buries his face into the curve of my neck.
I can feel the wetness of his tears seeping into my skin, but I don’t care. I just hold on tighter.
“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, his voice raw, broken. “I should’ve…he saved me, Lila. He saved me, and I—”
“Stop,” I whisper, pulling back just enough to cup his clean-shaven face in my hands. His skin is cold, clammy, his eyes glassy, reflecting his grief and guilt. “Don’t do that to yourself. Please.”
He shakes his head, fresh tears spilling over. “It should’ve been me.”
My heart fractures. “No. Don’t you dare say that.” I brush my thumbs over his cheekbones, grounding him, grounding myself. “You’re here. That’s what matters. Ryan wouldn’t want this, Logan. He wouldn’t want you drowning in guilt.”
He closes his eyes and leans into my touch. For a few minutes, we just stand there, our foreheads pressed together, breathing in the same ragged rhythm.
When he finally steps back, his face is streaked with tears, but there’s a sliver of control in his expression now. “We should go,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.
I nod, grabbing my small black clutch from the table by the door. The drive is silent, the air between us thick with everything unspoken. He uses his right hand to drive. His left, clenched into a fist inside the sling, the tension in his body radiating like heat.
I want to reach for him, put my hand on his leg, remind him I’m here, that he isn’t alone, but I don’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because I know he needs this silence. He needs to sit with it, to feel it. That’s what today is for.