The deep grief of being a student of Ryland Grace and learning that he has gone on the mission. You are excited because he said the best minds were on it and, well, he's the smartest guy you know! And then you hear that he's not coming back in time for the school year. Or the next. Or the next. Or, well, at all.
Everyone finds out differently. Some are religiously reading everything about the mission and go still in the darkness of their beds, phone glowing in front of their face. Some of them get sat down gently by their parents, maybe even with a counselor or therapist, to explain what's happening. Still more feel like a bolt of lightning has hit them when their friends whisper the news in class.
Undeniably -- and many of them try -- the fact that haunts them is that he went up for them. For their future. For everybody's future, some manage to rationalize, but those who think too hard cannot ignore it. Not for any faceless group of children -- their names and faces and laughs and questions must have been on his mind when he said yes.
It becomes a solid weight between them all. Ex students of his feel it too. If you know someone used to know and love Dr. Ryland Grace, you drop everything to help them when they fall, even if it's just a silent hand. The older students in particular latch onto the class he disappeared on, becoming fiercely protective. New kinship is formed. When they're old enough (even 16, if their parents relent), many of them get tattoos to remember him, even as they're covered up by the increasing layers they need to go outside. A beanie ball of the Earth. Laika the dog. His glasses. The date he left. Sometimes, just a red Petrova Line.
The first year that ex students of his graduate high school, he's mentioned in the Valedictorian's speech. She wasn't even a student of his, but she's grateful that he saved her best friend's life with his care and compassion. She says she hopes that his dreams are sweet. Ryland Grace hasn't even woken up yet.
When his class graduates, there's a seat saved for him in the teacher's row. The principal, throat thick, says that Dr. Grace would be proud of all of them. People leave flowers on the seat and his students get a special tassel.
Babies start being named after him, this time by people who actually knew him. Grief doesn't fade, but the space it occupies gets smaller, turns into an extra jolt of pain when they look up at the darkening sun and know that someone very smart is up there, trying to fix it.
On his "wake-up" day, a bunch of them get together again. They forget old grievances and brush past the awkwardness that time has grown. They show how their tattoos look now. They tell stories and try to guess what alarm clock music he would pick. They try to think of how he'd react to their lives. Many of them are teachers now. One of them has a framed selfie of them on their desk. They laugh about how embarassed he'd pretend to be while being deeply touched.
Eventually, eventually, they see his face again. It's so odd -- they have grown and loved and lost and yet he looks exactly the same. Wears the same shirts. When the government brings those who want to come to a naval base to show them exclusive footage, he teaches the same way, too. They all get a hard and digital copy of the special message he left for them. It confirms what they've known all these years -- that he is happy to serve for the future that they've been having, that their kids and grandkids will have, that he hopes has been treating them well. Listening to all of his adventures, all that he has gained and done for them, it doesn't feel like blame anymore.
