Steven Meeks wouldn’t break loudly.
When charlie told him and Pitts about Neil’s death, he’d break slowly, and he’d never quite put all the pieces back together. He wouldn’t cry right away. At first he’d just go very still, like his brain refuses to accept the sentence Neil is dead. He’d keep replaying ordinary moments: Neil laughing in the hallway, Neil correcting Latin, Neil talking too fast about plays. The normality of those memories would hurt more than anything. He’d think: I should’ve noticed. I should’ve asked more questions. I should’ve said something smarter. That would sit in his chest like a stone. Later, alone, Meeks would finally cry—but silently. No sobbing. Just tears he keeps wiping away because he doesn’t think he’s allowed to take up space with grief when Neil was the one who suffered.
In the days after Neil’s death, he’d start acting useful. Cleaning without being asked. Organizing notes. Straightening books. He’d cling to logic because emotion feels dangerous—if he lets himself feel, he’s afraid he won’t stop. He would start noticing patterns that aren’t there, because grief makes the mind desperate for answers. He’d reread Neil’s old essays and poems, looking for hidden warnings—as if brilliance could be decoded into a diagnosis. He’d linger on certain lines too long, wondering was this a goodbye? Then he’d hate himself for it, because it feels unfair to turn Neil into a puzzle instead of a person. He’d imagine a version of the world where he’d spoken up—where logic, reason, evidence could’ve saved Neil. That illusion of control would comfort him briefly, then destroy him all over again.
Eventually, Meeks would realize something that frightens him almost as much as the loss itself: he is the one who remembers best. Todd remembers the pain. Charlie remembers the anger. Knox remembers the romance of it all.
But Meeks remembers the details—and details have weight. They ask to be carried.
So he carries them, silently and inwardly.
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