Page 15 of Never After Us
When I step onto my floor, the hallway is quiet, her door is closed.It’s normal, and yet, it feels different now—empty in a way that sinks straight into my bones.
I stop in front of it.
The memory hits with no warning.
Lina knocking gently—two taps, then one more because she said it “felt friendlier.”
Her cardigan sleeves always pushed to her elbows.
Her little gold necklace resting just above her heartbeat.
“Sugar, dear,” she’d say, cheeks warm, laugh lines soft.“I swear I’ll return it this time.”
She never did.Instead, she’d bring whatever she cooked or something she found interesting in the streets or ...I’m pretty sure she never needed anything—just the company.Is that how I’m going to end up?Watching the neighbors and hoping for a few minutes of their time?
My chest feels tight—not panic, just pressure.Something old and familiar.The aching kind that shows up when life takes something you didn’t realize you depended on.
I exhale shakily.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Standing here won’t help.
Avoiding it won’t help either.
I’ve tried that my whole life—pretending loss isn’t loss if you don’t look at it straight on.As if ignoring it could make it smaller, easier to live with.Ironically, I did that.Me, a person who’s lost so much, you’d think I’d know better.A man who doesn’t even remember losing his parents—or if they ever existed.Yet somehow, I carry the grief of losing people over and over again because of the foster system.
Jumping from one house to another—no matter the reason—creates its own brand of mourning.Every new house feels like watching someone vanish into nothingness.It’s not exactly experiencing someone’s death.But they’re gone in a way that still leaves scars deep inside your soul and your heart.
Sometimes there was a goodbye, other times I just left and never knew if I had been kicked out or just moved because ...well, whatever reason that just made me feel I wasn’t enough.
Never enough.
I reach for my phone before I can talk myself out of it.My fingers move on muscle memory, dialing Dr.Bennet’s number like it’s some instinct I’ve carried for years without admitting it.He’s the only therapist who’s ever managed to untangle my grief, the only one who knows the whole messy timeline of my life without flinching.
He answers on the second ring.“Dr.Bennet speaking.”
I hesitate for a second, swallowing hard.Then say, “This is Alec.Alec Horvath.”
There’s a pause—just long enough for concern to crawl through the line.“Everything okay?Are you still in Los Angeles?”
I lean against the wall—right beside Lina’s door, the brass numbers staring back at me like an accusation I’m not ready to face.
“I, uh ...”I pause as my voice falters, and I hate the way it does.“I arrived in Seattle a couple ...today.”
Taking a deep breath, I gather myself.“I think.I ...I lost someone today.”
I press the heel of my free hand to my forehead.“She was my neighbor,” I manage.“Not ...not close.But she mattered to everyone who lived here.”My fingers drag through my hair.“I didn’t know she was gone.I was away.And now I’m back, and she’s not, and I don’t ...I don’t know what to do with that.”
Because I really don’t know if I’m grieving her or unlocking grief I kept buried under almost eighteen years of foster homes and closed doors.That’s the fun part of being fucked up on the inside—every emotion feels like a puzzle piece from the wrong box.
You can’t tell what’s old, what’s borrowed from another version of yourself you barely recognize—or from a book you read while traveling cross-country.
“Would you like to come to my office, talk about it?”he asks gently.
“I ...”The word hangs in the air, trembling between past and present.
I close my eyes.
