The Weight of What Remains

The rain battered the window in a relentless rhythm, a steady percussion against the fragile silence of the room. Kiersten sat hunched on the edge of her bed, her fingers curled around the ceramic mug that had long gone cold. The tea inside had once carried the promise of warmth, of comfort, but now it was nothing more than a forgotten afterthought — much like everything else in her life.

Her breath hitched as she stared at the small wooden box on her nightstand. It was unassuming, dark cherry wood polished to a gentle sheen, the kind of thing that might have once belonged to a grandmother, holding old letters or trinkets from a life well-lived. But for Kiersten, it was a wound carved into wood, a ghost she had trapped inside and refused to let free.

It had been six months since the funeral.

Six months since she had watched the casket lower into the earth, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging so deep into her palms she had drawn blood. Six months since she had stood before the gathered mourners and remained silent because she had nothing to say — nothing she was willing to share with them, at least.

But the words had never left her. They had lodged themselves inside her throat like splinters, refusing to dissolve, festering in the quiet.

And now, she couldn't hold them in any longer.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the box, pressing her fingertips against the lid as though she needed to brace herself for what lay inside.

It wasn’t much. A few letters, ink smudged from the countless times she had unfolded and refolded them. A watch that no longer ticked, its hands frozen at 3:17 PM — just before the accident. And then, the photograph.

The last one they had taken together.

She traced the edges, her vision blurring as she stared at the image. Her and Stacy, side by side, their smiles wide, the sun setting behind them, casting a golden glow that made everything seem softer, almost unreal. Kiersten had hated having her picture taken, but Stacy had insisted.

"One day, you'll be glad you have this," she had said.

Kiersten had laughed then, rolling her eyes, never imagining that one day would come so soon.

A broken sound tore from her throat, something between a laugh and a sob.

“Goddammit, Stacy.”

She slammed the box shut, pressing it to her chest as though she could will the pain away. But it was too much. It had always been too much.

She exhaled shakily, letting the tears come, finally, after all this time. They burned their way down her cheeks, hot and angry, washing away the numbness that had settled in her bones for months.

"Why did you leave me?" she whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of the words.

She knew it wasn’t fair. It hadn’t been Stacy's choice. A drunk driver, a moment of carelessness, a cruel twist of fate — that was all it had taken. And yet, Kiersten couldn't stop herself from feeling abandoned, from feeling cheated out of a future that had once been so certain.

Her shoulders shook as she gasped for air, every memory colliding at once, an avalanche of moments she would never get back. The way Stacy used to steal the covers in the middle of the night. The way she laughed — loud and uninhibited, like the whole world was a joke only she understood. The way she had held Kiersten's face in her hands, just days before the accident, and whispered, "No matter what happens, you’ll be okay.”

But Kiersten wasn’t okay. She wasn’t even close.

She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the box, her breath hitching in uneven sobs.

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

The silence didn’t answer.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, clinging to the remnants of a love that no longer had a place in the world. Minutes? Hours? Time had lost all meaning.

But eventually, the tears slowed. Her breath evened out. The storm inside her chest quieted, just a little.

She opened her eyes and reached for the photograph again, holding it carefully between her fingers.

She set the photo back inside the box and closed it gently.

The rain had stopped.

The rain had stopped, leaving behind the scent of wet earth and something almost clean in the air, as if the world itself had exhaled after a long, weary sob. Kiersten sat in the dim glow of her bedside lamp, her fingers running absently over the lid of the wooden box.

The weight in her chest hadn’t disappeared, but something inside her had shifted — just enough.

She inhaled, slow and deliberate, grounding herself in the quiet of her small apartment. The familiar hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The faint drip of water from the leaky faucet she kept forgetting to fix. The dull ache behind her eyes from too many sleepless nights.

She wiped at her face, wincing as her fingertips brushed against the salt-streaked remnants of her grief.

Maybe — just maybe — she could learn to carry this.

But how?

Her phone lay face down on the nightstand, screen dark, but she knew what she would find if she picked it up.

Unopened messages. Missed calls. The same names over and over. And among them, always, Erin.

A voicemail she had listened to but never answered.

"Hey, Kiersten. I… I don’t know if you’ll ever call me back, but I just — I just wanted to say I’m here. That’s all. No pressure. Just… whenever you're ready.”

Kiersten had played it more times than she could count, fingers hovering over the call button, never pressing it. She hadn't been ready then. She wasn’t sure she was ready now.

But maybe that didn’t matter.

Her thumb scrolled absently through her contacts, pausing on Erin’s name. Her heart squeezed.

Erin had been Stacy’s best friend long before Kiersten had entered the picture. The kind of friend who knew everything, who had been there for every heartbreak, every ridiculous inside joke. They had been inseparable. Kiersten had always been a little jealous of that bond, though she’d never admitted it aloud.

And yet, Erin had reached out. Again and again.

Tonight, something pushed her forward. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the memory of Stacy’s voice in her head, teasing and gentle, saying, "You’re not as good at being a hermit as you think you are, you know.”

She hit the call button before she could talk herself out of it.

It rang once. Twice.

Kiersten nearly hung up, panic curling around her ribs. But then—

“Kiersten?”

Her throat closed up at the sound of Erin’s voice.

She had expected resentment, or distance, or something brittle in the way she spoke. But there was only quiet understanding.

“Erin,” she croaked, swallowing hard. “I — I’m sorry.”

A breath, then, “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t suffocating. It was just… there.

Kiersten let out a shaky laugh, rubbing at her temple. “I don’t know why I called.”

“Yeah, you do.” Erin’s voice was soft. “You just don’t know how to say it yet.”

Kiersten exhaled. “I miss her.”

“I know,” Erin said again, and this time, Kiersten could hear the tears in her voice, too. “Me too.”

And for the first time in months, Kiersten didn’t feel quite so lost.