𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧
◦ ♡
𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. when the sky took caleb, all you got back was a folded flag and the echoes of everything left unsaid. you thought that the hardest part would be losing caleb– turns out, it’s learning how to keep living without him. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – ANGST, swearing, mature themes. loss of life, grief. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬– not proofread. couldn't sleep, so i wrote this in one go. please excuse the inconsistencies. i hope you guys enjoy. — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.
11.6k
3 years previous.
“let’s give a round of applause for your valedictorian– caleb xia!”
the sun is brutal, but caleb looks unbothered standing at the podium—uniform crisp, cap tilted just right, smile at ease. he scans the crowd, his face unbroken by the intense amount of bodies that showed up for today’s celebration. the applause fades. the wind shifts. and then he starts his speech.
“i thought flying would be the best thing that ever happened to me. i trained for it. worked for it. sacrificed a lot to get here. i made a lot of friends– a lot of life long connections. but somewhere along the way, something… better happened.”
his voice doesn’t shake. doesn’t rush, cool and calculated. he glances down at his notes like he needs them– but it’s not his notes it’s his bad drawing of a plane. must’ve gotten the wrong paper on his way here. he clears his throat, very well so improvising.
“i’ve written this speech more times than we’ve flown in the simulations. i wanted to write about everyone that helped pave the way for me, but, you see, the best part of my life didn’t come from the sky. it came from someone who kept me grounded. someone who made sure i never forgot who i was when everything else got loud. she sat through my late-night calls, my stress meltdowns, my terrible ramen phase. and she’s the reason i’m still standing here, sane, intact, and apparently valedictorian.”
there’s light laughter, scattered claps. he holds up a hand. but he’s not looking at his classmates. he’s looking straight at you.
“can you come up here for a second?”
you blink. once. twice. you point at yourself like an idiot. caleb just nods. still smiling and someone behind you shoves your shoulder gently. “go, go!” you stumble forward, heat crawling up your neck. you can feel everyone watching, whispering, wondering. your heels were the only noise that was heard as it clicked across the pavement. his classmates cheer.
caleb reaches his hand out to help you onto the stage like this is a movie and he’s memorized every line. you lean in, voice low. “what are you doing?” and he doesn’t answer. instead, he pulls a small box from his uniform pocket. and just– goes down on one knee. your eyes widen, lungs deplete of air. the air vanishes. the world stops.
“i want to fly a thousand missions and still come home to you. i want to grow old with you before i grow old in the cockpit. you are the love of my life, and i can’t envision my life without you.…..will you marry me?”
gasps. someone in the crowd yells “holy shit!” caleb’s hand doesn’t shake. his eyes are soft. wide open and waiting for your response. your body was stilled, it was just so mesmerized at this moment. you don’t cry right away. you’re too stunned. but you nod. and laugh. and nod again. and then tears flow. you cried at how, despite that this was his moment ,he decided to share it with you– decided to share it with the one he loved the most.
“yes,” you say. then again, louder: “yes!”
the crowd erupts. his classmates lose it. someone sets off a confetti popper they definitely weren’t cleared to bring. caleb slips the ring on your finger and pulls you into his arms, spinning you like the cliché he swore he wasn’t. you don’t care. you’re dizzy. you’re full. you’re his. and for one perfect second, the sky has never felt closer.
-
the knock is soft, almost hesitant at first—three measured taps that echo in the hallway like a heartbeat. you’re curled up on your couch, the low hum of the tv a distant comfort, when the sound reaches you. for a moment, every instinct tells you it’s caleb; maybe he’s finally returned, his voice promising that he’d surprise you with flowers and that worn-around-the-edges smile. you set aside the book you were pretending to read, rise slowly, and shuffle toward the door with bare feet and trembling anticipation.
when you swing the door open, the sight that meets your eyes makes time momentarily stop. there is no caleb, no familiar face framed by the doorway– just two military officers in crisp uniforms, their expressions a blend of duty and gentle sorrow. one of them, a woman, taller than the other, offers a respectful nod while the shorter man carefully holds out a small, unassuming box. resting on top of the box is a folded flag, pressed down as if to protect it from the chill of the unknown. the flag’s fabric is soft and worn. it looks reverent. of the highest importance. the most precious gift to be given. its creases speaking of countless memories. you feel a sudden, disorienting numbness replace the hope you’d clung to just moments before.
“good morning ma’am. are you mrs. xia? colonel caleb’s wife?” you steel your nerves, as you give a meek nod.
the three of you stand there, intensity piling over each other nonstop. your eyes start to water, as one of them start to speak, “we.. regret to inform you..” the man says, voice low, smooth, practiced, “colonel caleb xia-” and that’s when it breaks you. you were about to face the music. face the fact that they’re about to announce that your husband, childhood best friend, the man of your life.. “..-was involved in a flight incident three days ago. a systems malfunction. his aircraft lost contact over the water- and there was no distress signal. search and rescue operations have ceased as of this morning.”
presumed. lost. presumed lost. presumed. presumed.
the words echo in your skull like your heartbeat as if it wont sync with the rest of you. the officer keeps talking, and you don’t register most of it. words like sacrifice, and service, feel far away. like they’re happening to someone else. not to you.
your knees buckled, but your legs don’t give up. your throat is stuck. you couldn’t say anything. the pain that was slowly boiling over as the officer set’s the box down on your coffee table. as she walks past you once more, she doesn’t meet your eyes, but leaves you with one final sentiment, “we.. offer our deepest condolences.” she says gently as they leave. your chilled fingers find their way to the doorknob, closing it gently.
as the officers walk to their vehicle, they hear a blood curdling scream coming from your house. followed by screams of crying. they tense up, as they head into the car, forlorn amongst each other.
you stare at the box. the box sits there on your coffee table, untouched and solemn, as if it holds the final echoes of his laughter, the soft echo of his whispered promises, and the bittersweet memory of a love that once soared higher than any runway. in that quiet moment, every fiber of your being is caught between the hope of a return and the harsh, unyielding pain of loss—a loss that is carved into each fold of the flag resting there, a silent tribute to the life that was, and the heart that must now learn to continue without him.
the room feels too big now. it stretches wide and hollow, filled with quiet corners that used to hold his voice. your body is folded in on itself on the living room floor, back pressed to the couch, legs drawn tight to your chest, like curling inward might make the ache stop echoing.
the tv still hums softly in the background, forgotten, casting dim light across the walls that shifts every time the screen changes. none of it feels real. it’s like you’re watching yourself from far away—like you’re not really here, not really in this moment, not really alone.
for a while, you try to pretend it’s not real. you stare at the floor. you pick at the skin around your thumbnail until it bleeds. you blink too fast to see straight. you wait for someone to wake you up.
but no one does.
you don’t even realize you’re crying until your lips part and the first sob slips out—shaky, strangled, helpless. like your body is trying to warn you that this is going to hurt more than anything else ever has.
your face burns with pain. tears stain your face and neck, as if you have cried for years. your hands tremble at the sight of that fucking flag. that fucking flag that doubles down as a reminder that he was fucking dead. you were slowly unraveling. becoming ballistic.
your face crumples and the sound that follows is raw. ugly. gutted. you press your forehead to your knees and cry like you’ve never cried before– like it’s ripping something from inside you just to let it out. your shoulders shake. your breath stutters. you grip your sleeves so hard your knuckles ache.
you cry for the stupid way he used to tap on your door in threes. you cry for the voice that used to call you “baby” like it meant something holy. you cry for the way his arms wrapped around you perfectly, like you were the most priceless item in the world. the way he would wake up early just so he could take care of your daughter without you having to do it first. the silly plans he makes for you when you had a hard day. just to see you smile. you cry for the fact that your baby will never see her father ever again.
you cry because he promised he’d come back. and now there’s a flag sitting on your coffee table instead.
when the sobs finally slow, you’re left in the quiet aftermath—your body trembling, your cheeks sticky with tears, your throat raw. the room is still. the only thing you can hear is the soft hum of the refrigerator and the muted static from the tv you forgot to turn off.
you lift your head.
your eyes land on the box again. it hasn’t moved. but something in you has. your heart thuds unevenly as you crawl forward on shaking hands and knees, closing the space between you and the thing that holds whatever’s left of him. you hesitate when you reach it. your hand hovers above the lid, fingers twitching. your breath catches.
you don’t want to know what’s inside. you don’t want to see the things he left behind. but not knowing hurts worse. because at least if you open it, part of him will still be here. you press your hand to the cardboard. it’s warm from the sunlight filtering through the window, but the weight of it is cold in your chest.
you let your palm slide to the flag. the fabric is soft, neatly folded, impossibly precise. you wonder who folded it. if their hands were gentle. if they cried.
your fingers curl around the edge of the box. and with a breath that doesn’t feel like enough,
you lift the lid.
and the world goes quiet again.
your fingers grip the edge of the lid and lift slowly, carefully—like opening it too fast might break whatever’s inside. the cardboard creaks. the air shifts… and then it’s open.
you don’t know what you expected. maybe you thought it would feel colder. heavier? louder? but it’s quiet. inside are his things. small and simple. personal. they sit still, like they’ve been waiting for you.
your hands tremble as you reach in. the first thing you pull out is his flight jacket—brown and worn, creased in all the places you remember him folding it. the left sleeve still has your hair tie around it. the one he stole from your nightstand. the one you never asked him to give back.
you press the jacket to your chest and close your eyes for a second. it still smells like him. like apple soap, his favorite that he stocked up on at the flea market, and jet fuel and something warm you can’t name. you hold it a little longer before laying it gently on the couch behind you.
next, there’s a ziplock bag. inside is a small flash drive, black with a chipped corner. You recognize the sticker stuck to the front. his messy handwriting. your name. a little heart next to it. you don’t touch it yet.
you pull out a small notebook. it’s filled. the cover is creased, the spine soft from being carried around too much. you flip it open to a random page that was sticking out and find his handwriting again—neater than you remember. a list of things he wanted to do when he came home.
go to that lake and teach her how to ride a bikelearn to make bouquets for wifeyfix the chair in the bedroom or she’ll kick my ass againgo on a date. super overdue.
your vision blurs again. you blink hard. your thumb brushes over the last line, like touching it might make it real. beneath the notebook is a small envelope. no postage. no seal. your name is written across the front in ink that’s faded just slightly at the edges. you set it down gently, like it might explode. every touch made you feel hotter. like you were about to erupt yourself.
and then– at the very bottom– is a photo.
creased. softened at the corners. well-loved. it’s one of you. you’re smiling, barely looking at the camera, sunlight catching in your hair. he must’ve taken it when you weren’t paying attention. on the back, written in pen:
love of my life. my heart. my once-in-a-lifetime
your tears didn’t give you any time. your hiccups come fervently. you crouched down, your forehead hitting the dark floor, not caring if the impact hurt you in the slightest. your hands balled into a fist– as you slammed down on the floor repeatedly. this was a curse. did you piss off a god? did they want to punish you? you wailed, not caring if neighbors or a passerby hears you.
the first time he took you flying.
the airfield was quiet that afternoon, touched with golden light and the distant hum of activity. caleb had been pacing near the hangar, hands shoved into his flight suit pockets, pretending he was calm. pretending this wasn’t a big deal but it was. you knew it and he knew it too.
he’d talked about this day for weeks. “when the weather’s perfect, and the schedule clears… i’ll take you up. just us.” and now here it was– sunlight stretching across the tarmac, barely a breeze, and the world wide open.
“you sure you’re ready for this, lieutenant?” you teased as you approached, backpack slung over one shoulder, sunglasses half-slipping down your nose. “don’t call me that,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “you make it sound so formal.” “you’re about to fly a whole ass plane with me in it, caleb,” you said, grinning. “that’s kindaaa formal.”
he didn’t laugh—not at first. he just stared at you for a second, lips pressed together like he was holding something back. his fingers twitched at his side. not nerves about flying. you’d seen him pilot with calm precision under pressure.
no. this was different. this was you.
you followed him out to the jet, heart racing. it wasn’t big, but it was beautiful– sleek lines, pale blue paint kissed by sun. the cockpit door was already open. he helped you up the steps like it was second nature. you didn’t need the help. he still offered.
inside, the cockpit was warm. the leather smelled like old vinyl and the faint smell of caleb’s cologne. you settled into the co-pilot seat, buckling in, glancing sideways just in time to catch the way his hands lingered on the controls—steady, but shaking. just barely.
“you okay?” you asked, quieter now. he nodded, adjusting a dial. “yeah. just… haven’t done this ….with you before.”
you blinked. “you mean flying?” “no,” he said, turning to look at you.
the plane hummed to life beneath you. the engine low and alive.
he looked at you like the sky had nothing on you. like this– being here, with you– was the risk and the reward.
“you trust me?” he asked. you didn’t hesitate. “always.” and god, the way his face softened. the way his eyes held yours for that extra second, like he was memorizing the way you said it.
then the wheels lifted from the ground, and the sky opened for you both. you looked over at him mid-flight—hands sure on the controls now, wind sweeping against the windows—and thought:
he was never more beautiful than when he flew.
the knock doesn’t wake you.
it’s the doorbell that does—bright and insistent, slicing through the heavy quiet like sunlight through curtains. you stir against the couch, body aching from how you must’ve curled up at some point during the night. your throat is dry. your eyes sting. your limbs feel like they belong to someone else.
it takes a second to remember. then it all hits. the box. the photo. the letter you still haven’t read.
you sit up slowly, blinking against the light. your hand is still clutching the edge of his flight jacket, twisted in your sleep. you press your face into it once– just once– before the doorbell rings again.
you move on autopilot, feet bare, blanket slipping off your shoulders as you make your way to the front door. when you open it, you don’t expect her. you don’t expect them.
his sister stands there with a soft expression, one hand resting on the shoulder of the tiny girl standing beside her—the girl with his eyes.
your daughter.
you freeze in the doorway, one hand still gripping the edge of the frame. you’re not sure if your face is blotchy, if your hair is a mess, if your grief is still showing like blood beneath your skin. but she doesn’t say anything.
she just offers a quiet, “thought i’d bring her back a little early,” and a soft smile, almost apologetic. like she knows.
your daughter doesn’t wait. she sees you and beams, eyes crinkling, arms lifting like flight.
“mommy!”
you kneel before you can think, before you can stop the tears that spring up all over again– this time, different. she crashes into your arms with the full weight of someone small and unbreakable, her hair smelling like strawberries and sunshine. you wrap her up. hold her so tightly it nearly hurts. she giggles against your shoulder. “you squishing me.”
“i missed you,” you whisper, voice barely there. “i drew you a picture,” she says proudly. “it has a plane in it. like daddy’s.”
your heart twists. your eyes close. you nod against her hair, swallowing hard.
caleb’s sister steps inside without needing to ask, her eyes scanning the living room, the box still open, the flag still folded, the quiet aftermath still lingering like smoke. she says nothing about it. just rests a hand on your back as you sit with your daughter, fingers brushing through her hair.
“do you want juice?” you ask, voice a little steadier now. “yes! and waffles.” you kiss the top of her head. “you got it, captain baby.”
she runs off to the kitchen like it’s the best morning in the world. you stay kneeling there on the floor for a moment, staring after her. the ache is still there. the hole caleb left behind hasn’t shrunk. but right now, in this soft, impossible moment, it doesn’t feel quite so wide.
because part of him is still here. in her laugh. in her joy. in the way she runs like she’s never known anything but love.
you feel arms envelope you, like a cocoon. your sister in law pulls you in her arms, her voice trembling as her jaw tightens. “i’m sorry..” she musters as her tears land on your shoulder. she was strong in her own way. she was a rock to you when things went wrong. when you needed help she was there. she hadn’t even found out the news– but from her glance at the folded flag.. she knew… she knew.. she couldn’t even beat around the bush.
the next day felt like death.
you wake up in his hoodie. not because you meant to sleep in it, but because at some point in the night, you stopped trying to be strong.
your phone is buzzing. again. and again. you don’t want to check it. you already know what you’ll see. but you do. thumb slow. screen too bright.
and there it is– his name. everywhere.
not in headlines, not yet. but in comments. stories. posts from people you barely remember.
“can’t believe it. he was the best of us.” “my heart goes out to his family.” “rest easy, colonel caleb xia.” “you were so loved, man. you didn’t deserve this.” “sending prayers to his girl and daughter.” “we’ll take it from here.”
the words blur.. you scroll until your thumb aches. you like none of them. you reply to no one. you close the app, but the weight of it stays. he’s gone. and now the world knows it.
you ignore the messages and missed calls from your family and in laws. you even ignored his sister.
you hear footsteps– tiny ones– padding down the hall.
“mommy?”
you look up. your daughter is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, still in her apple pajamas. hair wild. eyes puffy from sleep. she hugs her stuffed rabbit tighter to her chest. the one caleb bought her. the one she never sleeps without.
“when is daddy coming back? i’m starting to miss him.. he always makes me waffles when i wake up..”
your breath stops.
she says it like it’s happened before. like it’s normal. like she expects a phone call later. a video. a souvenir. you kneel slowly, legs weak beneath you. your hands reach for hers, steadying even though you’re anything but. “baby,” you say softly. “come here.”
she walks over, all sleepy and innocent, and crawls into your lap without hesitation. she rests her head on your shoulder, small fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. you rock her gently. back and forth. back and forth. and then— you try.
“remember how we talked about how daddy flies really high in the sky?” she nods. her voice is small. “with the big plane.” you breathe in. it hurts. like hell. “sometimes,” you whisper, “the people we love go up so high… they don’t come back down.”
she frowns, brows furrow, in that cute way she does when she doesn't understand. “but daddy always comes back.” you press your forehead to hers. your voice shakes. you didn’t plan this. how do you explain death to a child who still thinks love can fix everything? “i know, baby,” you say. “but this time… he couldn’t. something went wrong. and he had to stay up there.”
“he forgot?” the way her lip trembles nearly breaks you. “no, sweet girl. he didn’t forget. he would never forget us.” she’s quiet for a long time.
“is he… in the stars now?” she whispers. you nod, even though your eyes are full again. “yeah. he’s in the stars.” fuckfuckfuck- you rapidly look to your right, away from her eyes, so you can blink the tears away.
“can he see me?” you nod harder. “always.”
she buries her face in your shoulder and says nothing. and you hold her like she’s the last tether to your heart. like maybe if you stay still enough, quiet enough, caleb might still be listening.
you rock her gently. back and forth. the morning sunlight spills across the floor. the phone buzzes again on the counter. you ignore it. right now, the world can wait. you’re too busy holding what’s left of him.
it was a beautiful day. of course it was.
clear skies. gentle breeze. birdsong carried over the low hills of the memorial field like it didn’t know what today was. like it didn’t matter that the only thing missing from the funeral was the one person it was for.
they called it a ceremony. a tribute– a celebration of life. as if any of those things made up for the fact that they never found his body. as if a flag folded with precision and placed on velvet could replace the man who used to carry your daughter on his shoulders through grocery stores. as if taps, played too perfectly, could echo louder than the silence he left behind.
you sit in the front row, wearing black you didn’t remember picking. hands clasped tightly in your lap, nails digging into your palms. your breathing is slow. measured. because if you breathe too fast, you might feel it all. and you can't. not here. not now. not for her.
caleb’s photo sits on an easel beside the podium. he’s smiling in it—smiling like he always did when you were behind the camera, like he was in on the secret that life could be beautiful. you can’t look at it.
the general speaks but you don’t hear him. his mouth moves, his voice low and reverent, but it all feels like it’s underwater. like someone pressed pause on the world and forgot to tell you. your fingers tighten around the small hand holding yours– your daughter. sitting beside you in a navy blue dress she didn’t want to wear.
she doesn’t understand why there’s no casket. no goodbye.no daddy.
she fidgets in her seat. you glance at her once, eyes glassy, and see that she’s clutching her stuffed rabbit like it’s the only thing keeping her together.
someone begins to read caleb’s accomplishments. his rank. his record. his honors. you hear the word “sacrifice.” it lands like lead in your stomach.
your vision blurs, not from tears— but from distance.
you’re floating somewhere behind your own eyes, not really here, not really now. watching your body sit perfectly still while your heart bleeds out across the grass.
and then…
a sob.
not yours.
small. sharp. your daughter.
“where’s daddy?”
the voice cuts through the speech. the silence after it is instant, jarring. you feel every eye shift.
her bottom lip quivers, hands balled into fists. she stands up, turns to the crowd, and says it again—louder this time, more broken:
“where’s my daddy?!”
your throat seizes. you try to reach for her but your arms feel far away. in a split second– she’s running towards the general.
“why isn’t he coming?!”
your vision breaks. the disassociation splinters. everything crashes back into you— the sunlight, the wind, the sound of her crying, the echo of a man they call fallen but you still want to believe is just late. like he’ll burst out of wherever he’s hiding, and laugh at the sick and stupid joke.
your body doesn’t think, you’re already running towards her as you scoop her into your arms, dragging her back into the chair. her fists beat weakly against your chest, her wailing unmatched. “he said he’d come back!” she sobs. “he promised!”
you hold her so tightly you’re not sure where she ends and you begin. you press your face into her hair and finally, finally cry. loud. unrestrained. not for the ceremony. not for the image. but because she said what you couldn’t. because she’s five, and she understands the truth you’re still trying not to choke on.
he’s gone.
he’s not coming home.
and you’re still here, letting her cry, in a world where taps plays for people who never got to say goodbye.
everyone was gone.
they left with soft smiles and casseroles in their arms, careful condolences tucked into envelopes you haven’t opened yet. they whispered, they nodded, they touched your shoulder like grief could be comforted with just enough gentle hands.
but now it’s quiet again. just you, the breeze, the wildflowers at the edge of the memorial field.. and him– or what’s left of him.
your knees are pressed into the grass in front of the stone they gave him. it’s smooth. too new.. his name carved into it like that makes it official. Permanent.
colonel caleb xia. loving husband, brother, and one hell of a pilot.
“you asshole,” you whisper.
it slips out soft, breathy. your voice cracks around it. you huff a laugh, and then the tears come–again.
“i can’t believe you left me here to raise a mini-you,” you say, rubbing your thumb over the stone . “she’s got your eyes. your smile. your attitude.”
you look up at the stone. at his name. your chest tightens.
“you should’ve seen her today. she stood up and yelled at a man in uniform because she didn’t understand why you weren’t there.” your voice trembles. “i didn’t know what to tell her. how do you explain to a baby that her father is now a folded piece of cloth and a few medals in a box? a tombstone?” you wipe your face, trying to pull it together, but you’re shaking.
“and i can’t–i can’t do it like you could. i don’t know how to make waffles the way she likes them. i don’t know the airplane sounds you used to do at bedtime. she asked me last night if you still brush the stars with your plane and i–” you stop. you choke on the sentence. then laugh through the tears.
“you’d be so smug right now, wouldn’t you? hearing that. you’d say something like ‘told you she was gonna be a handful just like me.’ and then you'd flash that dumb grin and i’d want to punch you but kiss you at the same time.” you look down at the marble and press your hand over it.
“i miss your voice,” you whisper. “your stupid jokes. the way you used to braid my hair for me.” you look at the stone again, and something crumbles in your chest.. something deep. you couldn’t let go.. you don’t want to. coming to terms with him being gone would be the end of you, and you knew it. this was your soulmate. the soulmate who is now laid down in the ground, never to return, and you had to just.. live on?
“god, i loved you,” you say. and now you’re sobbing. “i loved you so fucking much.” you lean forward, forehead resting lightly against the stone. the breeze picks up around you, brushing through your hair, tugging gently at your sleeves. you felt delusional as you think that maybe the tugging was him in the afterlife.. some sort of comfort yields to you.
you close your eyes. you stay like that for a long time. just breathing. just existing in the space where he should still be. “i’ll take care of her,” you whisper finally. “i swear. i’ll make sure she remembers how soft your hands were. how you laughed when she tried to salute you. how you cried when she called you daddy for the first time.”
“but you’re gonna owe me for this,” you add, voice hoarse. “when i see you again, you’re explaining everything.”
you pause. smile, just barely. “and you’re making waffles.”
three days later
the house is quiet. the kind of quiet that feels heavy, like it’s waiting for something. your daughter’s at school. you packed her lunch this morning with shaking hands and kissed her forehead twice before she ran off with her backpack bouncing behind her. she’s resilient. But she’s tired around the eyes lately. quieter. you didn’t say anything. she didn’t either.
you told yourself you’d clean. maybe eat something. instead, you’re here. kneeling in front of the box again. the one that’s been sitting on the floor beside the couch since the funeral. untouched. you’d meant to leave it closed for a while. give yourself space. time. but that never really helps, does it?
you open it slowly, like it’s a wound you’re reopening on purpose. his jacket still smells like him. the notebook still rests inside, half-written. the photo of you is curled slightly at the corners. you press it flat again without thinking.
and then– the flash drive.
small. black. a little chipped at the edge, but still intact. your name is written on the sticker in his messy handwriting. next to it, a tiny drawn heart.
you hesitate.
then you stand, walk to your laptop, and plug it in. it hums quietly as the screen flickers to life.
two folders appear. one labeled "for you." the other, "for our girl." you click the first one. a single video file. “if something happens.”
your heart starts pounding before you even hit play, tears brimming to life as you read that. you click. and there he is. your breath catches so hard you nearly sob right there. he’s sitting in what looks like the base’s rec room—his hair a little messy, flight suit unzipped just enough at the collar, like he’d rushed to record this. he’s smiling. not nervous. not rehearsed.
just him.“ hey,” he says, and the sound of his voice– god, it hits like thunder. you felt a shock, like the first time you heard him talk all those years ago. “if you’re watching this, something went wrong. and i hate that. i hate that you’re hurting. but i didn’t want to leave without saying what i needed to. i'm hoping i can delete this video after i come back from my flight.”
you press your hand to your mouth. his eyes are soft. like he’s looking right at you.
“i love you. not just the easy kind of love. not the kind that fades. the kind that roots itself in your bones. the kind that makes you want to be better, because i get to come home to someone like you.”
you watch him as he pauses, running a hand through his hair. your tears cascading down to your collarbone and beyond. you take deep breaths as you swallow just as hard.
“you made everything make sense. you gave me a life i didn’t think someone like me could have. and our daughter–”
he swallows. his eyes shine just a little.
“she’s the best thing i’ve ever helped create. every time she smiles at me, i think, how the hell did i get this lucky? and i couldn’t wait to give her a brother. or a sister. or both. i wanted more mornings. more bedtime stories. more bothering mommy while she’s doing her woman stuff. more late-night snack raids. i wanted it all with you.”
your shoulders shake. tears are spilling down your face, hot and uncontrollable. you don’t try to stop them. his voice keeps going, steady, like it’s holding you.
“if i’m not there– please tell her every single day that i loved her. that i still do. and that i was trying to come home.”
he smiles, soft and full of everything he never got to say in person. even though he was persistently smiling, you could tell that his eyes glossed. he was trying to hold himself together.
“there’s another file on here. it’s for her. just… in case she ever needs me at night. i love you..”
the video ends. the silence it leaves behind is deafening. you stare at the dark screen, your reflection, then look down at your hand. you sob into your hand for a long time. the kind of grief that splits you apart, the kind that wraps you in warmth and ache at the same time.
eventually, with trembling hands, you open the second folder. “for our girl.” another video. you recognize the cover of the book instantly.
“the airplane that could.”
her favorite. you hit play. and there he is again.
this time, sitting cross-legged on her bedroom floor, the book open in his lap.“ okay, kiddo,” he says, voice soft. “bedtime story, dad edition. you ready? his one’s for brave girls who fly high and land even higher.”
you laugh through your tears, hand pressed to your heart, as his voice fills the house again. reading each word like he’s still here. like he never left. and for a few minutes, he hasn’t.
you don’t know how long you sit there.
the laptop screen dims every few minutes and you keep tapping the touchpad to wake it, desperate not to miss a second. your fingers hover near the video file like they’ve made a habit of it already. you watch the story once. twice. three times.
and on the fourth playthrough, you press your palm to the screen. his image is pixelated under your skin. but it’s his voice that gets you.
the way he makes the little airplane’s “zoom!” sounds. the way he laughs when he trips over a sentence and mutters, “she’s gonna call me out for that one.” the way he pauses after the final line and says, “night, kiddo. dream big. daddy loves you.”
you rewind that last part. three times. you don’t realize you’ve been crying again until a drop falls onto the keyboard. you wipe it away and sniff, laughing softly—like he’d just caught you.
the sun’s shifted by the time you hear the door open. your daughter’s back from school, jacket half-off, hair windblown from recess. she drops her backpack in the hallway, calls out, “mommy?” you swipe your cheeks with your sleeve. “in here, baby.”
she walks in, still hugging her stuffed rabbit, and climbs up beside you on the couch. her head rests against your shoulder like she’s done it every day of her life. you close the laptop for a moment.
“can i show you something?” you ask softly. she looks up. her eyes are wide, curious. “is it daddy?” you nod. “he made you something. before… before he left.” her lips press together, and for a second, you think she might say no. but then she nods. “okay.”
you open the file. press play. and you don’t watch the screen this time. you watch her. her eyes light up the second he speaks. “that’s daddy,” she whispers. her hand tightens around yours.
as he reads, she mouths along to her favorite parts. laughs when he makes the airplane noises. leans in when he says, “you can do anything, little flyer. you just have to believe.” you hear her whisper the words with him. she’s memorized them. and when he finishes, “night, kiddo. dream big. daddy loves you.” she smiles through tears.
you’re crying again. silent. broken in the most beautiful way. she looks up at you. “can we watch it again?” you nod. “as many times as you want.”
and you hit replay. and you both sit there, curled together on the couch, wrapped in a blanket watching the man you both loved tuck her into sleep from somewhere beyond the sky.
a few days later
it’s raining. soft and steady, the kind of rain that doesn’t demand anything from you. the kind that just stays. your daughter is asleep—finally. she asked to hear “the airplane that could” twice tonight, and you let her. every word caleb read, every silly sound, every warm pause—it fills her room like he never left. you made tea but, you haven’t touched it.
instead, you sit on the floor of the bedroom in an old hoodie and sweatpants, the box beside you, your fingers resting on the envelope you still haven’t opened. it’s thinner than you remember. lighter. but it feels like the heaviest thing in the world.
you run your thumb over your name again. the ink is slightly smudged, like he held it for a while before setting it down. and you take a breath– and you open it.
the paper shakes in your hands as you unfold it. it’s his handwriting. no doubt. you’d know it anywhere—slanted, a little messy, confident.
you read:
my girl, my woman, my wife, my life, if you're reading this, something happened. and if something happened, you’re hurting. and god, if i could change that, if i could tear the sky open just to get back to you, i would. i’d do it a thousand times.but this is my backup plan. because you always said i needed one. so here it is. my heart on paper.
your hand flies to your mouth. your eyes burn. you keep reading.
first: i love you. not just the everyday kind of love. but the kind of love that made me rethink everything. the kind of love that made base housing feel like a palace, made ramen feel like a meal, made 3am deployment calls feel like they could wait a few more minutes because you were still asleep on my chest. i love the way you laugh. the way you fight. the way you love. i love the way you yell at me from the hallway to get my clothes out of the washer. i want more with you. i wanted more. more babies. yeah, i said it imagine a tiny version of you with my ears–terrifying. but perfect. i wanted to put another crib in the corner of our room. i wanted to teach our daughter how to ride a bike, and let you laugh at me when i ran beside her like an idiot. i wanted home with you. every version of it. i was gonna ask for the instructor position when i got back. no more deployments. no more taking off without knowing if i’d come home. i was ready to teach. to stay. because you made staying feel like the only dream worth chasing.
you stop. your vision is too blurry. you blink, wipe your face, your chest heaving. but you keep reading.
but if i don’t come back– promise me something. i know that i told you before that i’m obsessed with you– deeply devoted– and i am. i always will be, and i wanted you to be the same.. but this is different now.. don’t put your heart in a box with my name on it. don’t shrink just to keep loving me. be happy. fall in love again if you want to. raise our daughter to be wild and brave and soft the way you are.and when the house is quiet, and the world feels big and empty, pull out the notebook. it’s all in there. the first day i saw you. the night i almost kissed you but chickened out. the fight we had over burnt toast. it’s messy. real. it’s me.and it’s yours. always yours. —caleb
your hands are shaking. you fold the letter against your chest and sob. not the sharp, sudden kind. this one is slow. broken. like letting go and holding on at the same time.
you reach into the box, pull out the notebook. the leather cover is worn. familiar. you press your lips to it. you don’t open it. not yet. but you will.
and when you do, you know it’ll be like hearing his voice again. not a goodbye. just a continuation. just love, written in the only language he had left. you stare at your tea that’s been on your table this entire time. it was cold, long forgotten. you look at the window, watching and listening to the rain still hitting against the glass. finally, you look back at the book, tracing the edge of the notebook with your thumb for a long time. just sitting there. the only thing that matters is what’s inside this worn leather cover.
you open it slowly. his handwriting greets you like an old song. the first page is dated 6 years ago. early fall. just two weeks into your first year of college.
september 9 dorms are hell, someone stole my towel and i think my roommate sleeps with his eyes open.but today i saw her. i don’t know her name. she was in the common room, sitting cross-legged in front of a vending machine like she was trying to make peace with it. said it ate her dollar and she refused to let it win. she had on a nasa sweatshirt that was way too big, and i think she’d forgotten she had a pencil behind her ear. she muttered something about orbital mechanics and kicked the machine. it gave her a snickers. i think i’m in love.
you laugh. it slips out through the tears, a sound you didn’t think you could still make. a memory rises with it– you, hunched in front of that vending machine, furious and hungry and too broke to lose another dollar and him, standing behind you with a bag of chips and a look on his face like you’d just rewritten the sky.
you turn the page.
september 15 her name is gorgeous. she’s in my aero engineering lecture. i sat two rows behind her and spent half the class trying to think of something cool to say if we bumped into each other outside. i said “hey.” she said “you look like the kind of guy who brags about parallel parking.”i don’t know what that means but i think she’s right.
you cover your mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter and ache. god, he remembered every detail. the next few pages are scattered—little notes about campus, sketches of planes, scribbled song lyrics he never finished. but you keep flipping. page after page of a boy slowly falling in love with a girl he hadn’t even kissed yet.
october 3 she said she wanted to be the kind of woman who builds things that fly. said it with her eyes half-closed, on the roof at 2am, wearing my hoodie like it already belonged to her. i don’t even remember letting her take it, but it looks better on her. i told her i wanted to fly them. she said, “guess that means we’re stuck with each other.” i wanted to kiss her. i didn’t. i just said “yeah.” i should’ve kissed her.
you’re crying again. you hold the journal to your chest, just for a second. because he wrote these things for himself. but maybe, deep down, he always hoped you’d read them one day.
and now you are. and he’s here again, word by word, memory by memory– falling in love with you on the page, like he never stopped.
you flip through the journal carefully, the pages worn and full of little smudges from where his hand must’ve lingered. his writing gets a little more rushed as the months go on—like his heart was moving faster than his pen could keep up.
you find it, tucked between two pages. a folded napkin taped inside– faded ink, the logo from that burger place near campus. and beneath it, a date you’ll never forget.
october 14 – first date i picked her up at 7. i say “picked up,” but we both know i walked across campus in a panic, stopped twice to fix my jacket, and almost tripped on my shoelace outside her dorm. she was already waiting by the door. hair tied back. that stupid nasa sweatshirt again. she smiled at me and i forgot my own name.
you laugh, pressing your fingers to the page. you remember it exactly– how he blinked at you for a full five seconds before remembering to speak.
we went to that burger place with the wobbly tables and the jukebox that only plays sad 80s songs. she said she liked the milkshakes there. i said “me too.” i don’t even know how the milkshakes tasted. i just wanted to match her. she talked about stars and i listened like they were falling out of her mouth.
your chest aches. you flip the napkin up to read what’s scribbled underneath.
she drew a rocket on this napkin. i told her it looked like a shoe. she punched my arm. i’ve never felt more in love. after dinner we walked back to campus. slow. like we didn’t want the night to end. she said her favorite part was when i didn’t talk too much. i said my favorite part was when she laughed with her head tilted back. she said that was a dumb favorite. i said i was a dumb guy. and then– she looked at me. really looked. i stopped breathing. in love or terrified? the world may never know.
your heart’s pounding. you turn the page.
she asked me if i was going to kiss her or just stand there looking like a scared intern.i panicked and said “both?” she kissed me. it was fast. messy. perfect. she pulled away smiling. i didn’t know where to put my hands. i think i said “wow.” stupidstupidstupid she said, “took you long enough.”
your hands are trembling as you close the journal for a moment, hugging it to your chest. you can still feel that night. the cool air. the neon lights of the diner behind you. the taste of vanilla shake on his lips. the way he looked at you like you were a miracle he’d never stop believing in.
he wrote it all down. because even then– he knew: he knew he’d love you forever.
you flip further into the journal. the entries start to space out a little, scattered between class notes, training schedules, coffee stains. but one page stands out—creased at the corners, the words pressed harder into the page like he couldn’t write them fast enough.
bold letters across the top:
november 17 – I WON.
you smile immediately.
i fucking won. nationals. first place. best time of my life. my lungs are burning. my legs feel like they might fall off. my hands won’t stop shaking. and all i keep thinking is— she was there. she saw me. her voice was the only one i could hear.
you remember it. you feel it still—your throat sore from screaming, the way your hands ached from clapping, your whole body buzzing with pride. you were near the front, right by the finish line. you jumped so high when he crossed, you nearly fell over the railing.
she was wearing my jacket. the big one. said it made her feel “official.” i saw her before the race—she blew me a kiss and said “don’t lose. i bet snacks on you.” i think that’s when i knew i had to win. couldn’t let her down. or lose snacks.
you laugh, pressing your fingers to the words. he was always like this—charming and ridiculous and so sincere it hurt.
when i crossed the finish line, i didn’t even look at the clock. i looked for her. found her jumping up and down, hands cupped around her mouth, yelling like she wanted the world to know i was hers. i’ve never felt more like i belonged to something. not the medal. not the track. her. she ran down to meet me after. shoved people out of the way like it was life or death. she threw her arms around me before i could even catch my breath and kissed my stupid, sweaty face. said, “my champion.” i wanted to cry. i wanted to marry her. i will.
you close your eyes. the sound of the crowd still echoes in your ears. his arms around you, shaking from the race, from the weight of it all. how he buried his face in your neck like the win didn’t matter half as much as the fact that you were there. how he whispered, “i did it for you.”
he always did.
december 12 – i said it. i told her i love her. and i meant it so hard i thought my chest might give out.
your breath catches before you even turn the page.
it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. not that night. not like that. we weren’t dressed up. there weren’t candles. it was just us. just the couch. just a shitty movie playing in the background. she was curled up next to me, stealing all the blankets. hair a mess. feet cold. skin warm. she was ranting about something—some professor she didn’t like, or the terrible sandwich she had for lunch. and i wasn’t even listening. not really. i was just looking at her. and i thought, god. i love you. and it came out. just like that. out loud.
your fingers tremble as you turn to the next page.
she stopped talking. just blinked. looked at me like i’d thrown a brick through the window. i panicked. i froze. i didn’t even try to take it back. i just said it again. “i love you.”and then, quieter: “i didn’t mean to say it right now. i just—i mean it.”
you laugh—soft, broken, a sound from somewhere deep. you remember the way he said it. like it had been sitting behind his teeth for months.
she stared at me for a second. and i swear, my whole life happened in that silence. then she kissed me. slow. full. like she was trying to memorize me.. sappy... and then she whispered, “took you long enough.”
your chest tightens. your fingers press to the page like touching his words might let you feel him again.
i don’t care how long i live— that moment? that kiss? the way she smiled after? that’s the one i’ll take with me. that’s the one i’ll keep. forever.
you close the journal against your heart. tears fall in silence. not from pain— not only. but from knowing, absolutely, that you were loved. so fully. so honestly. and that even now, he’s still loving you in every word he ever left behind. your lips tremble as you part your lips, “why’d you have to defend this country you stupid man.. you should’ve just became a fucking scientist or something.” you half laugh half hiccup as you held the journal tighter against you.
after some time you peel from it, readying yourself for the next excerpts.
april 4 – first time. i don’t know how to write this without it sounding like every dumb teenage diary in every coming-of-age movie, but— we slept together. and yeah, it was sex. but it was more than that. it was her hands in my hair when i couldn't stop shaking. it was how she made me feel safe even when i felt like i didn’t know what the hell i was doing. i’ve never been looked at like that before. like i was something worth loving. like i could mess up and still be enough. she kissed my shoulder after and whispered, “we’re good, yeah?” and i said, “we’re so good, baby.” and i meant it with every damn cell in my body.
august 28 – the scare. she was late. not by a day. by five. i didn't sleep the whole week. and it’s not that i wasn’t ready—hell, i don’t know if anyone’s ever ready. but i wasn’t scared of being a dad. i was scared of what it might do to her. of her giving up the sky she wanted for diapers and night feeds and stress.but when she told me it was a false alarm— we just sat in the bathroom, laughing. half from relief, half from how stupidly close we felt to everything changing. and i think that’s when i knew. if it had been real, i’d have loved that kid so hard they’d never doubt who their father was. because she’d be the mother. and that alone would’ve made them magic.
february 2 – ring shopping, kinda. okay, okay. technically i said we were helping james pick out a ring for his girlfriend. technically, that wasn’t a lie. but also, i wanted to see what she’d pick. what made her eyes light up. what styles she hated. what made her whisper, “i could wear something like that forever.” and damn, she did. there was this one—gold, thin band, little oval-shaped diamond tucked in the center. she didn’t even say much about it. just touched the glass in front of it and smiled like she saw a future. our future. i didn’t buy it that day. but i went back. and i swear, when the time comes— i’ll put it on her finger like a promise. like everything i am belongs to her.
you didn’t think it would hit this hard.
you thought this one would be sweet. nostalgic. the kind of memory you keep behind glass and smile at when no one’s looking. but the second your eyes land on the words
your throat tightens. you know this one.
you pull the journal closer, your thumb resting against the page, and you start to read.
may 25 – graduation. i asked her. i was valedictorian. they called my name last. the applause was loud. i smiled, shook hands, made jokes. i gave a speech. i don’t even remember half of it. because all i saw was her. and i also forgot my speech paper at home.
your eyes sting immediately. you bite down gently on the inside of your cheek—like maybe if you anchor yourself hard enough, you won’t fall apart. you remember where you sat that day. front row. wearing his jacket even though it was warm out. hands trembling in your lap.
she was front row. wearing my jacket. eyes red from crying. hands clutched in her lap like she was trying not to run up onstage and tackle me.
you let out a shaky breath, tears sliding slowly down your cheek. it’s like watching a memory through someone else’s eyes—but it’s yours. it always was.
i had the ring in my pocket the whole time. heart racing so hard i thought it would give out. after the speech, i asked her to come up. she looked confused. nervous. and when she finally walked up there— i dropped to one knee in front of the entire class.
you smile through the tears. god, the way the crowd erupted. how you covered your mouth and shook your head in disbelief, even though you knew. you always knew.
i said, “i want to fly a thousand missions and still come home to you. i want to grow old with you before i grow old in the cockpit. will you marry me?” and she said yes.
you press your fingers to your lips, like you can still feel the kiss you gave him onstage—fast, breathless, the only answer you could give. Yes. a hundred times yes.
i’ve never won anything more important. not the title. not the speech. her. she’s it.
you close the journal slowly, but your fingers stay pressed to the cover, unmoving.
his handwriting still lingers behind your eyelids. the way he wrote her—not even your name, just her, like it was enough. like it said everything. and maybe it did. you lean back against the couch, cradling the journal like a heartbeat. your voice is barely a whisper when you say it out loud.
“you were it for me too.”
you open to the next entry. the page feels heavier.
september 10 – wedding day. i don’t know where to start. maybe with the way her hands shook when she laced them with mine. maybe with how she kept adjusting her veil like it wasn’t already perfect. maybe with the way i saw her walking toward me and forgot how to breathe.
you exhale shakily. your hand lingers on the ink where he pressed a little harder—where he wanted the words to stay loud, like that moment still echoed in his chest.
she looked like sunlight. like warmth. like she was born to ruin me and rebuild me in the same breath. and god, she did.
you smile through the tears, lips trembling. you remember the way he cried first. you remember laughing at him—softly, not to tease, but because it was so unmistakably caleb to weep like that and pretend he wasn’t.
she made fun of me for crying. i said, “have you seen yourself?” she rolled her eyes. and then she promised forever. and i promised it back. with every cell in my body.
your smile was forlorn. you stared at this entry just a bit longer than the others.. eventually you flip to the next entry, dated not long after.
november 14 –she’s pregnant. i’m writing this with both hands shaking. she told me this morning. came into the room holding that little test like it was a secret, like if she said it too loud the moment might disappear. i was brushing my teeth. i almost dropped the toothbrush. and then she said, “you okay?”and i said, “i think i’m in love with you all over again.”
you cover your mouth. you remember the way he dropped to the floor like his legs gave out. how he kissed your stomach before you even had a bump. how he whispered, “we’re gonna be parents,” like it was something holy.
she kept pacing. said she wasn’t ready. said she was scared.and all i could think was— i get to build a life with her. a home. a child who’s half her, half me.and if this baby has even an ounce of her fire— the world better watch out. …maybe we should name it apple.
your eyes squeeze shut. your hand shakes against the page.
august 12 – she’s here. our daughter. i don't even know how to start this. i've rewritten the first line seven times. nothing feels big enough. no words feel like they belong to what just happened. but she's here. our little girl. and she’s perfect. her name sounds different when i say it out loud now. heavier. real. it used to be a name we whispered over dinner. a maybe. a dream. now it’s a person. a whole person. and she has my eyes. i swear to god the second they handed her to me— i thought the whole world paused. like even time wanted to watch.
you smile through the tears. your fingers rest over the date on the page, like holding it might take you back to that room—where everything changed.
you flip through more pages, just details of his experiences with your daughter. he was sweet, adoring, and the sweetness may have fooled you if your eyes didn’t land on this page;
february 18 – i’m leaving in the morning. deployment orders came in. she tried so hard not to cry. held our daughter in one arm, kissed my cheek, told me she’d hold the sky down till i came back. she always says things like that—poetic and steady. like if she can speak it into the world, it’ll make it true.i wanted to believe her. i do believe her. but i’m scared. not of the mission. not of flying. i’m scared of missing too much.
march 4 – base is loud. hot. everyone’s tired. i think about them all the time. i have a picture taped to the inside of my locker—one of the three of us on the couch, blankets everywhere, popcorn stuck to our shirts. my daughter’s head is in her mom’s lap. her mom is laughing. i look like i’ve already won the war. i stare at that photo every morning before briefing. whisper to it, “i’m coming home. wait for me.”
you flip through more entries, until you get to the last page. you almost didn’t want to read it. head light, breath staggered, the paper felt thinner now. you take a deep breath– or as best as you possibly can, and continue.
may 3 – in case something happens. i need this written down. i don’t know why i feel like writing this now. maybe it’s just a quiet night. maybe the wind sounds different. maybe love makes you preemptive. just in case. if i don’t make it home— if you’re reading this—god, i hope you know i loved you with everything i had. from the moment you kicked a vending machine to the day you said “i do.” from the time you placed our baby girl in my arms to the last voice note you sent before this mission. you’ve been my gravity. my sky. my reason to fight, and the softness i always returned to. and if i don’t get to hold her again— tell her i never stopped trying. tell her she’s brave like her mommy. and kind. and funny. and too smart for this world. tell her i was hers from the first time i felt her kick. and you. you, baby— live. laugh again. love again. fall asleep in someone’s arms and know that it’s okay. you were my forever. and i’ll be waiting at the edge of every sky. until you find me again.
his final entry is burned into your mind. the words feel heavier than paper has any right to be. your hands are shaking. your lips part like you want to say something, maybe to him, maybe to the empty room— but nothing comes out. just air. shallow. trembling.
you press the journal to your chest like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. and then it hits. not slowly. not gently. like a punch straight through your ribcage. the kind of grief that doesn’t knock. it takes. your body curls in on itself. your shoulders begin to shake. and the first sob breaks out of your throat like it’s been waiting days to escape. you try to muffle it— fist pressed against your mouth, breath caught halfway between a gasp and a cry. but it keeps coming. a second sob. then a third. and then you’re full-on breaking.
you bury your face into the hoodie still stained with his cologne, the one you’ve worn three nights in a row. your knees draw up to your chest, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’re trying to hold your heart in place.
you can’t wake her. your daughter is down the hall. so you cry as quietly as you can. but the pain still slips through. in your breathing. in the way your body rocks slightly like he used to do when she cried in the middle of the night. like you’re trying to soothe yourself the way he would’ve done.
you were my forever. and i’ll be waiting at the edge of every sky.
your hand presses to your mouth to stifle the next sob, but it still escapes—loud enough to crack through the silence, not loud enough to wake her.
you whisper his name. once. twice. like a prayer that’ll never stop aching.
and then, quieter: “i miss you, caleb. i don’t know how to do this without you.”
you sit there in the dark, with his words against your heart and your tears soaking the only piece of him you still have left to hold. and for the first time in days, you let yourself fall completely apart. because tonight, you don’t have to be strong. not for her. not for anyone.
just for this— this goodbye you never got to say, and this love that never stopped living inside you.
a few days later
the house is quiet. soft sunlight spills through the kitchen windows, painting the floor in gold. the kind of morning that doesn’t ask much of you, just presence. just breath.
you’re at the sink, mindlessly rinsing dishes that weren’t even that dirty. the journal still lives on the table behind you. closed, but not untouched. you haven’t opened it again—not yet. you will. just… not yet.
and then— the front door swings open.
“mommy!” your daughter calls, her voice high and full of breathless excitement.
you turn, startled. she’s carrying a basket. no, dragging it, really—too big for her tiny hands, but she’s determined. a woven handle hangs off her wrist, stuffed to the brim with pastel-colored wrapping and little ribboned items peeking through the top.
she marches straight into the kitchen and sets it down with a loud thud. you blink at it.
“baby… what’s all this?”
she beams, huffing and puffing, “lukey and kiereny’s dad gave it to me at pickup! he said it’s for you!” you freeze. luke and kieren. you know those names. they’re in her class. and their dad— that’s…
you kneel down slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “he gave you this? for me?”she nods hard. “he said it was to make you feel better. and he said you could call him if you were sad.” you glance at the basket—carefully curated, clearly thoughtful.
bath bombs in calming scents. artisan chocolate. a small jar of lavender honey. a soft-rolled pair of cozy socks.
and nestled between everything, a sealed envelope with your name written across it.
you take it with gentle fingers. your daughter leans against your arm, watching. you unfold the note.
i’m sorry for your loss. i understand how you feel. if you ever need anybody, don’t hesitate to reach out to me.
— sylus
and below was his phone number.
you read it twice. then a third time. short. simple. but it lands softly in your chest like something warm against all the cold. he didn’t overstep. didn’t try to fix it. he just… offered his hand.
you let out a slow breath, blinking hard. “do you know him?” your daughter asks, looking up at you. you smile—small, tired, but real. “not really,” you say.
“but maybe i will.”
holy shit dude this was a masterclass at work even if it ripped my heart and put it through the shredder
