Supernova

They play “Someone Like You” by Adele at her funeral. I hate it, even being a loyal Adele fan. There is no one like Anil, and there never will be. I can’t find someone like her because there is no one. 

When everyone walks up to Anil and says their final goodbyes, I take out the ring from my pocket and show her parents. They nod, tears dripping down their faces. I slip the tiny diamond ring onto Anil’s left ring finger, the one that matches my own perfectly. The flood finally comes as I walk back to my seat, wishing I could be anywhere but here, saying goodbye to the best person in the world. 

The stupid song keeps going, telling me to never mind and find someone like her. But there is no one to find, I think. If only I could take the stupid speaker and smash whoever thought of this song on the head with it. 

When the ceremony is over, I skip the dinner afterwards and go home. It’s raining, of course, because life is a cliche. I swipe at my eyes, trying to slow the crying, and as I reach my house, it stops. There are no more tears left in me. Even if there were, I don’t think I would have the strength to shed them. 

It goes without saying that I am an utter mess. Mascara running down my cheeks, smudged lipstick marks on my forehead from Anil’s mom, and a mix of rain and dust staining my dress. My glasses are askew, so I reach up to fix them. My ring scrapes the edge and I wait for the crying to return, but I’ve worn myself out. There is nothing left to do to make me feel better. I’ll try anyway. 

Out of my ruined dress I know I’ll never wear again because I’ll just start wailing, into warm, cozy pajamas that I will also probably never wear again unless I’m in the mood to go on a trip down memory lane and cry. I bundle up in bed, plug in my earbuds, and let the sound of Adele drown out the world. 

I wake up with my phone at three percent and “Oh My God” playing full volume. My earbuds must have come unplugged sometime while I was sleeping. The sun remains absent from its place in the sky. Thunderclouds gather instead, promising a storm later. I’m not going to school today. Or probably ever. Because I am a grown woman and I do what I want to do. Thank you, Adele. 

Well, not fully grown, but in a week. Or maybe a few days. Time has no meaning without Anil. The thought of Anil makes my eyes water, and I bury my face in my pillow and cry until I can’t anymore. When I’m finally done, I promise myself I won’t cry again today and I will actually get dressed. 

Out of my warm bed and to my dresser. Sweatpants and a Rolling Stones tee? No, sadly, that is not “actually getting dressed”. Jeans and a sweater it is. One goal down. I feel slightly optimistic for the day until I go downstairs for breakfast and see Anil grinning next to me on the fridge. She’s piggybacking me. Nope. Not gonna cry. I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to push down the tears. I sniffle a few times and a few tears escape, but I don’t count that as crying. 

My eyes open again. I check my reflection in the oven’s glass and nod. No obvious effects of crying are visible, except for a few tears on the fringe of my eyelashes. I swat at them and they disappear. Okay. Time to do something. Maybe I’ll go on Tinder, find someone new. No. I shut down that thought quickly. I’ll never be able to replace Anil. 

A museum instead, then. And possibly a caramel latte at Starbucks. I grab a KIND bar and step out of my house. The air on my face makes me feel refreshed, but also kind of melancholy. It’s like seeing your friends for the first time in a while: you’re happy, but they’re all chatting about things you missed and you feel sad. 

I look up at the thunderclouds. I have time until the storm, hopefully, to do something. To get my mind off Anil and find something else to think about. I head towards the museum.

There was not enough time. I got to the museum, looked around for a couple hours, decided to go get lunch, and pretty much exactly as I crossed the street to Starbucks, the rain decided to drench me. Now I’m sitting with my caramel latte and blueberry muffin in a damp sweater, combing my fingers through the soaked mop that is my hair. Little red hairs get stuck to my hand every so often, but not too many. 

The good thing about short hair is that it’s not easy to tangle. When I shaved my head a year ago, tangles were my main thing I wanted to get rid of. Now it’s somewhat grown back into a pixie-like cut. 

Oh god, Anil had a pixie cut. 

My eyes start to water. Am I going to be like this forever? Glassy-eyed and sobbing every time anything reminds me of her? I hope not, because that’s too much crying. Everything reminds me of her. Anil is, in some essence, in everything. Her eyes were the color of a summer day’s flawless sky. Her sweaters were the texture of my favorite blanket. Her laugh was the taste of maple candies straight from Maine. Everything is her, and she is everything. But maybe that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

I can stop crying when I think about Anil. I can find someone new and not betray her. I can love her with all my heart and not have her the sun of my universe. She’s gone forever. The sun has gone out. I am rotating around empty space. 

Maybe it’s time for a new sun.

She’ll always be in the memories of so many people. She touched so many hearts with her witty jokes, her wacky socks, her wondrous mind. We will never forget Anil Knoll, no. She is always going to be somewhere special in us. We can remember, but we must move on. We can love and make merry in honor of her, not despite her. She would want us to. Anil Knoll was special. She was a supernova in a world of twinkling stars. But all supernovas meet their end. They all go out eventually. 

We will remember, but we won’t dwell. We’ll move on. Because all supernovas will dwindle slowly away, but for every one who is gone, there is another star waiting to be found.