A few days later, I was dressed in a black suit given to me by my grandmother, standing in a tent and accepting bitter condolences from people.
Black isn't my color. It never was.
It clings to my skin like guilt, heavy and suffocating, like I'm the one who dug the grave instead of the one standing over it. Every breath feels borrowed from someone else's lungs.
The sun's out — too bright, too cruel. It bounces off the polished coffin like the world's laughing at me. The air smells of dry leaves, wet soil, and expensive perfume — the scent of people pretending to care. People crying fake tears and moaning louder than me—and I'm supposed to be the one hit hard by the loss.
