Cry Pretty

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The rain had started an hour ago, relentless and cold, turning

the city into a blur of shimmering lights and wet concrete. It

matched the weight in my chest, the oppressive kind that made

every breath feel heavier than the last. I clutched the strap of

my duffel bag, the only thing separating me from the reality I

was now walking into.

Mom was gone.

The thought sat like a stone in my stomach, unmoving, sharp-

edged. It had been four days since the funeral, but the truth of

it hadn't settled yet. I had spent those days moving between

numbness and hollow surges of pain, waves of grief that came

without warning and left me drowning in confusion.