The sky didn't cry.
It stayed clear, bright, almost cruelly beautiful.....stretching endlessly above a funeral that no one came to.
She stood alone.
Her shoes sank slightly into the soft earth as she faced the coffin, her hands trembling at her sides. The black dress she wore didn't feel like hers. None of this did. It felt like she had stepped into someone else's life, someone else's nightmare.
They said he had jumped from the rooftop of the apartment early in the morning.
"His name was Avin," the man said, reading from a paper he barely looked at.
Avin.
Her chest tightened at the sound of it.
She wanted to laugh because of course that's how they would say his name. Flat. Careless. Like it didn't carry late-night phone calls, unfinished homework, stupid jokes, and promises whispered on a rooftop.
Like it didn't carry her.
There were rows of empty chairs behind her.
Not a single one filled.
No classmates. No teachers. No neighbors.
No one.
Her gaze drifted over them slowly, as if someone might suddenly appear if she looked long enough.
They didn't.
Not even his friends.
The same boys who used to crowd around him after school, laughing too loudly, pushing each other, arguing about nothing. The ones who walked home with him every day, taking the longer route just to stretch the conversation a little more.
She remembered how they would call out to him from the school gate
"Oi, Avin, hurry up!"
"Don't ditch us today!"
And he never did.
He always turned back.
Always waited.
But today
They didn't come.
Not one of them.
Not even to stand quietly at the back.
Not even to look at him one last time.
Her throat tightened.
Even her mom had left.
"I have work," she had said that morning, tying her hair quickly, not meeting her eyes. "I'll come later if I can."
Just like during their Class Day.
The memory came back uninvited.
The school hall had been full that day, decorated with cheap streamers and paper flowers, the stage buzzing with nervous excitement. Parents filled every seat, phones out, smiles wide, waiting to watch their children perform.
She remembered standing beside him backstage.
"Is your mom here?" she had asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Just peeked through the curtain for a second too long.
Then he pulled back, shrugging like it didn't matter.
"She said she might come."
Might.
He had said it casually. Lightly.
Like it didn't already sound like a no.
She had followed his gaze anyway, scanning the crowd.
After the performance, other kids ran into their parents' arms, laughing, talking over each other, replaying every small moment like it was something big.
He just stood there beside her, one hands in his pockets and another holding a candy she had given.
"Guess she got busy," he had said.
And then, he smiled.
Like it didn't hurt.
Like he was used to it.
Back at the funeral, her chest ached.
Just like that day
But they both knew she wouldn't.
So now it was just her.
Just her... and him.
Her eyes fell to the coffin, and suddenly it felt too small. Too final. Too wrong.
He's in there.
The thought didn't feel real.
Avin wasn't supposed to be in a coffin.
He was supposed to be late to class, running in with messy hair and that stupid grin. He was supposed to be whispering answers during exams, nudging her when she got too serious, laughing when teachers scolded him.
He was supposed to be beside her.
One more month.
That's all there was.
One month until graduation.
"You better not mess this up," she had teased him weeks ago, sitting side by side on the rooftop after school.
He had leaned back, hands behind his head, staring at the sky. "Me? Mess up? I'm obviously graduating with top marks."
She had rolled her eyes. "You barely pass math."
"Details," he shrugged, then turned to look at her, unusually serious for a moment. "We'll graduate together. I promise."
She remembered the way he said it.
Like it mattered.
Like she mattered.
Her fingers curled into fists now.
"You promised," she whispered, her voice barely holding together.
The wind carried her words away.
The priest said a few more things, something about peace, something about rest, but she didn't hear any of it. The only sound in her head was that one sentence, repeating over and over.
We'll graduate together. I promise.
A promise that lasted exactly one month short of forever.
Her throat burned.
Why?
The question sat heavy in her chest, unanswered.
Why didn't he tell her?
Why didn't he say something?
Why did he leave?
The workers began lowering the coffin, the ropes creaking softly as it disappeared into the ground. She took a step forward without thinking, her breath hitching as panic clawed at her chest.
"No..." she murmured, shaking her head.
This wasn't right.
This couldn't be it.
But it was.
Slowly, steadily, the coffin vanished from sight until there was nothing left but a hollow space in the earth.
Just like that.
Gone.
Her knees felt weak, but she forced herself to stay standing. Forced herself to watch. Because if she looked away, it would feel like she was leaving him too.
And she couldn't do that.
Not to him.
Not after he already left her.
"I'm here," she said, louder this time, her voice breaking. "I'm here, Avin."
No answer came.
Only silence.
Only the wind.
-----
She didn't remember leaving the cemetery.
Her feet carried her somewhere familiar, somewhere automatic, like her body knew where to go even when her mind didn't.
The rooftop.
Their rooftop.
The city stretched out below, loud and alive, completely unaware that someone had just disappeared from it forever.
She walked to the edge and sat down, just like they always did, her legs hanging over the side. The concrete was warm, the sun beginning to dip lower in the sky.
This was where it always happened.
The talking. The laughing. The dreaming.
This was where he made that promise.
Her chest tightened again.
"You liar," she said softly.
The word didn't come out angry.
It came out broken.
"You said we'd graduate together."
Her voice cracked, and she pressed her lips together, trying to hold it in, but the tears came anyway, slipping silently down her cheeks.
"One more month," she whispered. "You couldn't wait one more month?"
The city below kept moving.
Cars passed. People talked. Somewhere, someone laughed.
It made her feel sick.
How could everything keep going when he didn't?
She wiped her face roughly, pulling her knees closer to her chest.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked, her voice shaking. "I was right here."
Every day.
Every moment.
Right there beside him, and still, she hadn't seen it.
Hadn't understood.
The guilt settled in, heavy and suffocating.
Maybe if she had noticed.
Maybe if she had asked.
Maybe if she had stayed a little longer that day
She shut her eyes tightly.
Too many maybes.
Too many things that would never change anything now.
The wind brushed past her again, softer this time, almost familiar.
For a fleeting second, she could almost hear it
A laugh.
Light. Teasing.
"You're overthinking again."
Her eyes snapped open.
Her heart pounded.
Nothing.
Just the sky.
Just the city.
Just her.
Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a shaky breath.
"I hate you," she whispered.
But even as she said it, her voice softened.
"I hate you for leaving."
The words hung in the air, fragile and unfinished.
Then, quieter
"...but I'm still here."
She looked out at the horizon, the fading sunlight painting the sky in soft shades of orange and gold.
"I'll graduate," she said after a moment, her voice steadier now. "Even if it's just me."
A pause.
"And I'll take you with me."
The wind carried her words into the open sky.