Last night, I saw Kay again. She was alive in the kind of way dreams make everything feel close enough to reach out and touch. She was smiling and giggling in my subconscious. I was happy again.

I woke up and the air was cold and empty. Grief hides during sleep, then waits patiently to crash against the daylight.

The truth pulled itself over me slowly, the way morning light creeps through heavy curtains.

She’s not here.

But today, it felt new again. Like the first day without her. Like my feet forgot how to move through this world she doesn’t inhabit anymore.

I ordered preserved flowers for her grave for Memorial Day. Somewhere inside me, I think I wanted to give her something that couldn’t wilt. Something that might hold beauty a little longer than I could.

“Die with a smile” keeps playing in my head and I don’t remember pressing play. Maybe my grief has a soundtrack now, soft and cruel and haunting.

My eyelids never stay dry long. And it’s not about the tears anymore, it’s about what they say.

They say I’m still not okay. They say I might never be.

It feels like my insides echo every time I try to call her name.

I miss her so much I hardly recognize myself.