The room was too quiet. Too heavy. I could hear the hum of the overhead lights, the soft creak of the floorboards under my shoes, the distant murmur of someone arranging flowers in the hallway. The air smelled faintly of lilies, sweet, cloying, suffocating.
I stood there, staring at the coffin, at Kayla, my Kayla, who looked nothing like herself. Too still. Too powdered. Too gone. Her skin was waxy; her lips pressed into a shape that wasn’t hers.
I kept waiting for the punchline. For her to sit up, roll her eyes, and say, Psyche! Gotcha! But she didn’t move. And I didn’t breathe.
I wasn’t ready for the people. For the hugs. For the whispered I’m so sorry that scraped against my skin like sandpaper. I wanted to bolt. To scream. To flip the whole damn room upside down and yell, Get the fuck out! This isn’t real! She’s NOT DEAD!
But I stayed. Because that’s what you do. You stay. You stand. You brace yourself for the moment the door opens and the world walks in, expecting you to be gracious, composed, polite, when all you want is for time to rewind.