By the morning of the funeral, I felt emptied out. I had cried until my eyes burned and my face looked unfamiliar. The kind of grief that comes in waves had stopped feeling like waves. It felt like the ocean had moved into my chest and decided to stay.
When I arrived at the chapel, the viewing had already begun. Soft music floated through the room. People spoke in low voices. Friends and relatives approached carefully, touching my shoulder as if I might crack. Everyone meant well, but I could barely hear them. Their words landed somewhere far away.
And then I saw him.
Greg lay beneath the lights, still and quiet, wearing the navy suit I bought him for our last anniversary. His hair had been combed the way he did before weddings. His face looked calm, almost peaceful, which somehow made everything worse. Greg was never still in life. He always had motion in him. Fixing something around the house. Tapping his fingers while thinking. Clearing his throat before speaking, like he was preparing to say something important even if it was only about the grocery list.
That stillness did not belong to him.
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