Funerals suck
I hate funerals.
Not because I don’t understand they’re necessary, or that I don’t feel the weight of the loss—because I do. But I hate how everyone acts like they’ve known the person forever, like their tears are real and not just for show. Like they’re here to pay their respects when most of them barely looked at her when she was sick.
People I barely knew came up to time, clutching tissues whispering things I don’t want to hear. “She’s in a better place now.” Yeah, right. Like my mother’s pain was just a story, a chapter closed in a book I can’t finish.
The house was too quiet, the air too thick with fake sentiment. I sat in the my room curled up in my black dress, tears blurring my vision. I hate crying in front of everyone, especially when I feel like drowning, alone in a seas of strangers.
Then I hear it—the rhythmic knock at my door, the kind only one person ever does I know who it is even before I look.
George.
My crush since I was six, the boy I secretly loved but told no one. They boy I knew never saw me that way, not really, but I loved him anyway. He always had that kindess, like he saw through all my insecurities like he understood.
I cleared my throat and told him to come in.
….
George’s perspective
I stood outside her door holding a bucket of cookies and cream (her favourite ice cream)
I didn’t have to think twice about it — two quick raps, a pause, then the follow-up taps that finished the beat.
Knock-knock…(pause)knock-knock…knock.
“Shave and a haircut.”
Her door, her laugh, her entire presence — I’d tied it all to that rhythm. It wasn’t just a knock anymore. It wasours.
A private joke. A signal. A promise.
And every time I tapped it out, I knew she’d be on the other side of that door, smiling before she even opened it. “Come in” she said. I heard her say anything since her mum passed.
“I come bearing gifts just for you Con-Con” I’d missed hearing her laugh. I dove onto her king sized bed and laid beside her. Her room hadn’t changed one but since she was twelve. Everything romcom themed Quotes after quotes. Her dad banned me from her room after I snuck in for a sleepover when we fourteen. He thought I was burglar the look on his face was priceless.
“How you holding up Con-Con” I asked I shoved more ice cream in mouth.
“Dad can’t stand to look at me. He doesn’t have to say it I just know it breaks his heard seeing mum in me.” She stared up at the ceiling as I finished the ice cream.
I didn’t say anything at first. What do you even say to that?I just looked at her — the same girl who used to collect friendship bracelets like trophies, who once cried when I broke my arm falling out of her treehouse, who always smelled like strawberry shampoo and old books.
She looked so tired now. Not physically, though I could see that too — but soul-tired, like everything good in the world had tilted sideways. I hated that I couldn’t fix it.So I did the only thing I knew how to do.
I reached for her hand, quietly lacing my fingers through hers. She didn’t pull away.That felt like a win.
“Your dad’s just… grieving,” I said softly. “In his own way. I know he loves you. He’s just trying to breathe through the part where everything hurts.”
She didn’t answer right away. Just blinked up at the ceiling, like the answers might be there if she looked hard enough.
“I feel like I’m disappearing, George,” she whispered finally. “Like everyone’s moving around me and I’m stuck in slow motion. Even when they talk to me, it’s like they’re talking through me . I miss her so much I can’t even breathe sometimes.”
Her voice cracked on that last word.
And that was it.
I didn’t think — I just pulled her into my arms, pressing her against my chest, wrapping myself around her like maybe if I held her tight enough, the ache in her ribs might ease just a little. She melted into me, no hesitation, her fingers curling into the fabric of my hoodie like she was anchoring herself there.
“I’ve got you, Con-Con,” I murmured into her hair. “I’ve always got you.”
She didn’t say anything, but I felt it — the way her whole body softened, like she’d been carrying the weight of the world and was finally letting someone else carry a little of it.
I wasn’t thinking about anything else — not the funeral, not the silence downstairs, not the fact that I’d been in love with her since the second grade when she gave me her last gummy bear and told me I looked like a hero in her picture book.All I knew was that this girl — my girl — needed someone real. And I was here.
Then the door creaked open behind us.
We both turned at the same time.
Her dad stood in the doorway, his eyes landing first on her, curled into me, then on me — arms wrapped around his daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world. Which, to me, shewas.
For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stood there in his dress shirt and funeral tie, looking ten years older than he had last week.
“George,” he said, not angry — just tired. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Connie sat up slowly, wiping her eyes. I felt her fingers slip out of mine, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t want to let go.
“I’ll be right back,” I told her, standing.
She nodded, and even though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, it was real.
I followed her dad out into the hallway, bracing myself for whatever came next. But in my chest, her warmth still lingered.
And in that moment, I knew something for certain:I wasn’t going anywhere.
