The Shape of Your Absence
Six months feels like six minutes. Hell, six lifetimes.
The house is too quiet. Her place still smells faintly like jasmine and vanilla, like the body butter she used after showers. We haven’t moved much. Haven’t changed much. It feels disrespectful.
Zaria stands by the window when I walk in, arms folded tight across her chest. Her curls are longer now. Softer. She finished her master’s degree last month. Lena would have been insufferably proud.
The envelope sits on the coffee table between us. We’ve both avoided it. Not because we didn’t want to read it. We know that reading it makes it final.
“You ready?” I ask.
Zaria nods once, but her chin trembles.
I sit down. Pick up the envelope. My hands feel heavier than they should.
Her handwriting hits me first. I inhale sharply before I begin reading aloud.
My Loves,
If you’re reading this together, you did what I hoped you would. You stayed with each other.
First, let me say this plainly so you don’t twist it into something tragic — I did not lose. My body lost. I did not. I lived. I loved. I experienced things my little sickle cell warrior self never thought she would. And you two gave me that.
Calil,
My Professor. You loved me like I was permanent, even when my body was temporary.
You never made me feel fragile. You made me feel chosen.
Please keep unlearning. Keep dismantling the parts of you that were built from fear and shame.
Replace them with softness. Replace them with healthy love.
You are not your father. You are the man who knelt and asked for consent.
You are the man who surrendered when he could have dominated.
You are the man who loved a trans woman out loud.
Don’t stop becoming that version of yourself.
And go to the sickle cell gala in my honor.
Wear something sharp. Bid high. Be loud about why you’re there. Make them remember my name.
Zaria,
My Z Baby. You finished your master’s degree.
I knew you would. I hope you walked across that stage with your shoulders back and your head high.
I hope you remembered that the world tried to shrink you and you refused.
I am so proud of you. You loved me openly when loving me came with risk.
You let me love you in ways no one else had.
You gave me softness where I had only known defense.
Please keep advocating. Open that safe living space.
Be the refuge you needed when you were younger. And love yourself the way you loved me.
Now here’s the hard part. You two are probably distant right now Not because you don’t care.
Because you feel guilty. Guilty laughing.
Guilty touching. Guilty feeling something that looks like love without me there.
Stop it. Go to therapy. Together. Separately.
Do not let grief turn into avoidance. I know how you both process pain — by trying to carry it alone.
Don’t. I brought you together because I knew you were a perfect fit.
You both challenge each other. You both crave depth.
You both love fiercely and stubbornly. Don’t let my death be in vain.
If I fought my whole life against my own blood just to love you both, then the least you can do is live.
Travel. Touch. Argue and reconcile. Build something. And when you feel joy again, don’t silence it. That’s me too. I love you in a way that never ends.
Love Always,
— Lena
My voice breaks before the last word. Zaria is crying silently now, shoulders shaking. I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear hits the paper and blurs her signature.
“She knew,” Zaria whispers hoarsely. “She knew we pulled away.”
I nod, unable to speak.
We did pull away. We slept on opposite sides of the bed. We avoided eye contact too long. We pretended our love was a shared hallucination.
“She said don’t let her death be in vain,” Zaria says quietly.
I swallow hard.
“We haven’t been living,” I admit.
“No,” she agrees. “We’ve been surviving.”
I fold the letter carefully before pressing it back into the envelope like it’s sacred.
“She told us to go to therapy,” I say.
Zaria gives a wet laugh. “Of course she did.”
I look at her fully for the first time in weeks.
“We feel guilty,” I say plainly.
“Yes.”
“For loving each other.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretches between us. Then I stand and cross the room slowly. I stop in front of her.
“She didn’t bring us together to collapse when she left,” I say.
Zaria’s eyes search mine. “You still love me?” she asks, voice small in a way I’ve never heard before.
“With everything I have,” I answer immediately.
She nods as tears start to fall again. “Then let’s not waste it,” she whispers.
I pull her into my arms. We don’t rush. We don’t pretend the grief isn’t there. It is.
But beneath it?
So is love.
It’s been six months since it doesn’t feel like betrayal to admit that.
The therapy office hasn’t changed.
Same muted walls. Same peppermint scent. Same damn couch that knows too much about my life. Dr. Manning looks up from her notes the second we walk in.
“Well,” she says dryly, folding her hands. “Look who finally responded to my weekly ‘are you alive?’ texts.”
I exhale faintly. “I’ve been… busy.”
“With grief?” she asks.
“With avoidance,” I correct.
The thing about therapy is that even when you think you’re hiding, you’re not. Your therapist sees through the lies so you might as well tell the truth. Even when it hurts.
She nods once, satisfied with the honesty. Her gaze makes its way to Zaria.
“And you must be the girlfriend.”
Zaria straightens slightly but doesn’t shrink. She sits taller when she realizes I claim her even in rooms where she’s not present.
“Yes. I’m Zaria.”
Dr. Manning smiles warmly. “I’ve heard about you.”
Zaria glances at me sideways. “Only good things, I hope.”
Dr. Manning’s smile is filled with warmth when she replies, “Of course.”
We sit with space between us on the couch. Not a lot but enough to be noticeable. Dr. Manning doesn’t waste time.
“I know you’re here because of grief,” she says. “But grief is rarely the root. It’s usually the catalyst. What is the grief causing?”
The question is more straightforward than I expected. I rub my palms together slowly.
“We’re distant,” I say finally.
“In what way?”
I glance at Zaria. She keeps her eyes forward.
“Emotionally,” I admit. “Physically.”
“And why do you think that is?”
Because we’re scared.
Because loving each other feels like betrayal.
Because she died.
I swallow.
“I feel guilty,” I say plainly. “For being more in love with Zaria now than I was when Lena was alive.”
Zaria’s head turns sharply toward me. Her eyes are filled with surprise.
Dr. Manning doesn’t flinch.
“Explain that,” she says calmly.
“It’s deeper now,” I continue. “Quieter. More fulfilling than I imagined. Lena… she was fire. Zaria is steady. I’ve gotten to know Zaria in ways that I hadn’t prior to Lena’s death. Every new thing I learn, I love more. And I feel like I shouldn’t feel that shift.”
Dr. Manning leans back slightly.
“Love evolves,” she says gently. “Even if Lena were alive, your love with Zaria would have grown. That doesn’t diminish what you had with Lena.”
I look down at my hands. “It feels like it does.”
“Because Lena is frozen in memory,” she says. “And Zaria is living.”
That knocks the winds from me momentarily.
Zaria shifts beside me.
“It’s not just him,” she says softly.
Dr. Manning turns to her. “Go on.”
“I feel guilty too,” Zaria admits. “But not just because Lena is gone.”
She inhales deeply.
“I’m distancing myself.”
My head snaps toward her.
“Why?”
She finally looks at me. “Because I don’t want to be hurt.”
The words land like a punch.
“Hurt how?” I ask.
She swallows.
“In case one day you decide this only worked because of Lena. That we were some kind of shared grief bond. That without her, it doesn’t make sense.”
My chest tightens immediately.
“That’s not—”
“I don’t know that,” she cuts in gently. “You say you love me. I believe you. But what if you wake up one day and realize I remind you too much of her because she was our connector?”
I feel heat rise in my neck.
“That’s not how I see us.”
“But you could,” she says quietly. “And I don’t think I could survive losing you too.”
Dr. Manning looks between us carefully.
“Calil,” she says, “what do you feel hearing that?”
“Hurt. Sad. Some anger,” I admit.
“At her?”
“No.” I shake my head. “At the idea. At the people who’ve caused her so much pain that she feels so easily expendable.”
I turn fully toward Zaria now.
“There is no version of my life where you’re temporary or optional,” I say, my voice firm but controlled. “I don’t see a love without you in it.”
Her eyes glisten.
“You don’t get that kind of place in my life because Lena died,” I continue. “You get it because you deserve it.”
Silence.
“I didn’t fall into you out of grief,” I add. “I chose you before we buried her.”
Dr. Manning nods slightly.
“What I’m hearing,” she says, “is fear on both sides. Fear that moving forward means letting go. Fear that growing love equals replacing.”
Zaria nods slowly.
“I don’t want to replace her,” she whispers.
“You can’t,” Dr. Manning replies gently. “And you’re not supposed to.”
I lean back with a deep exhale.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“You grieve her,” Dr. Manning says. “And you build something new. Not because she’s gone. But because you’re alive.”
Zaria’s hand shifts slightly on the couch cushion between us making connection with me.
“You need to decide,” Dr. Manning continues, “if your love is rooted in shared loss… or shared vision.”
I look at Zaria again. “I want shared vision,” I say.
She studies me carefully.
“Then stop punishing yourself for loving me,” she says softly.
A lightbulb flickers on and I realize we haven’t been grieving wrong. We’ve just been grieving alone.
And that part?
That ends here.