Dante Medema

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Scarly

Tomorrow, I’ll say hello to a brand-new version of V, bittersweet because this time I know hello will always end in goodbye. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping it doesn’t hurt as bad the second time around.

IMO funerals should be for the people closest to the person who died. So they aren’t sitting in a fishbowl while people who didn’t even know you at all tap on the glass as they watch us swimming around like brain-dead guppies in our grief.

It’s like my leaves have been plucked too soon, stolen and shoved into a plastic bag, and I’m stuck. Unable to grow because the fertilizer I should have had is missing. Gone. Empty.

It starts in my chest—this sinking feeling—like losing a saved file or realizing you didn’t back anything up after hours of working on a project and your laptop dies. It spreads, a virus through my arms and legs and fingers and toes.

Spencer’s lips quiver. Two tectonic plates sliding against one another until his whole body shakes next to me. If only she could see the aftershock she left in us all.

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