Grayson changes the subject. “How’s your mom? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

That makes two of us. I switch the tap off and place the chopping board on the dish rack. After drying my hands, I take a seat at the kitchen table. Grayson joins me. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

“She leaves you alone a lot, doesn’t she?”

“It’s like she’s never there,” I admit. “It sucks. I was always envious of Chloe. She had a loving family who turned up for every school show and every ballet competition. Even when your wife disappeared, you still showed up. Chloe was never alone. I don’t think my mom turned up to a single event.”

Grayson rubs the back of his neck. “I had no idea it was that bad.”

“No one notices,” I reply, stroking my fingers over the tablecloth. “Mom, she…” I clear my throat. “She feeds me, washes my clothes, keeps the house clean and the lawn mowed. People only start to notice the neglect when the grass grows, the dishes pile high, and the weight starts falling off.” My eyes flit up to his. “It’s why I knocked on your door tonight. I don’t want to be alone all the time. Now that Chloe is gone, I…”

“I know,” he replies softly.

“I have no one. I’m not like Chloe, who had lots of friends. Now that she’s gone, no one knocks on my door.”

That’s the thing about grief—it alienates you from others. It’s a disease. Once it digs its claws into you, everyone else gives you a wide berth. I’m now the girl with the dead best friend, and no one at school wants to associate with death.

Grayson’s chair scrapes on the floor. I watch in silence while he pours the water out of the pan and plates our food. His house smells of a home-cooked meal for once instead of pizza, beer, and misery. Almost as if a tendril of warmth has seeped through the floorboards to ward off the darkness.

We eat in silence. That’s the thing about grief, too—it doesn’t need conversation. It doesn’t speak in words. Its language is subtle, gentle even. Haunted eyes, a shared look, a weak smile. It is heavy sighs and wishing you could fill the silence but not having the strength to try. That’s me now, hunting for a subject to chase away our grief.

He speaks first. “This tastes so much better than pizza and microwave meals.”

His words have me blossoming like a flower in spring. “You like it?”

Nodding, he says, “It’s the first home-cooked meal I’ve had since…”

And there it is, creeping back out from the shadows to steal the glimmer of light from his eyes, snatching it away like a thief in the night.

“We should make it a thing.”

His fork scrapes against the plate. “A thing?”

“You know?” I say with a shrug. “Eat together a few times a week. My mom is away, and you’re here alone. I think it would mean a lot to Chloe if we tried to honor her in some way.” My eyes dance across the kitchen, the soft light from the lamp in the window, the photographs and school letters attached to the fridge with magnets. “I feel close to her here. I remember the time we decided to bake scones. When Chloe grabbed the bag of flour, the bottom split. You would think it all poured to the floor and that was it, but no,” I chuckle softly, circling my fork in the pasta, “it was a cloud of flour.”