I blinked, uncomprehending at first. Fly out? Where would we even go? And then it hit me – a fresh wave of reality crashing through the thin veil of denial I’d been clinging to.

Her city. Her home. Her last place. I couldn’t speak. The words tangled in my throat like a thick, unmoving mass. 

So I just shook my head against his chest, my voice broken as I whispered, “It’s not real.” 

He pulled back slightly and placed his hands on my shoulders, his brown eyes glistening but steady, “What can I do for you right now?”

I need answers.

That word echoed in the spaces of my mind. Answers. But what answers could there possibly be? She’s fine. She has to be okay. Isn’t she? 

“Give me a minute,” I finally said, pulling away and retreating into the house. My body felt heavy as if I were wading through invisible sand. I made my way to the bedroom – the one safe place I could still cling to – and shut the door. 

In the stillness, I sat staring at the floor, phone in hand. My fingers hovered over Kay’s name in my call history. A single tap would redial her number, and maybe she’d pick up. Maybe there’d be an explanation. Maybe everything was just a big misunderstanding. 

I squeezed my eyes shut, the weight of reality threatening to crush me. 

My mind replayed the words I’d heard earlier, the ones I wasn’t ready to believe. 

There was an accident.

I don’t even remember asking for details. I don’t know if they gave me any. All I know is that the conversation ended with someone gently suggesting I prepare for the worst. But I wasn’t ready.

I’d never be ready.

By early the following day, JT had everything in motion: flights booked, accommodations arranged. He took charge the way he always does when needed, as though his calm decisiveness might help hold my crumbling pieces together. 

I, on the other hand, wandered through the morning like a ghost, moving mechanically, numb, detached. Except for when the grief hit me in unexpected waves, like when I saw her photos on my phone or when I caught the pink morning splotches on the horizon – her favorite color. 

When the time came to leave for the airport, I hesitated. My suitcase stood by the door, and I stared at it like it was mocking me. Packing that bag felt like admitting she was gone – that there wouldn’t be a phone call saying it was all a mistake. 

“Ready? Our ride to the airport is here.” JT’s voice brought me back to the moment. He stood there, his gaze gentle, soft. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I admitted, swallowing hard.

There’s so much people don’t tell you about grief. For example, they don’t tell you how much the little things will hurt. Grief sneaks up on you in ways you don’t expect. 

No one warns you how exhausting it is, either. Not just the crying – but the constant, heavy ache in your chest. The battle with your mind to keep from falling apart every second of the day. The hollow sense of wrongness that follows you, even when you try to distract yourself with small, mundane tasks. 

And now, sitting on the plane, hand-in-hand with JT, I felt exactly that: hollow. Like grief had carved out every part of me that once felt whole. 

The sound of the plane engines humming around me almost drowned out the noise spinning in my head. What will I see when I get there? How will I face it? What if it’s worse than I expected? 

I didn’t know the answers to those questions and wasn’t sure I ever wanted to. 

For what felt like the thousandth time in less than 24 hours, I closed my eyes tight, hoping this would all be over when I opened them. That when we landed, I’d find her safe, smiling, and very much alive. 

But deep down, there was a voice I couldn’t silence. A quiet whisper growing louder with every passing mile: She’s gone.