I don't know what to do.
I follow Elliot through the crowd, our footsteps muffled by the soft grass of his house's yard. The sun is too bright for a day like this. It makes everything feel wrong—like someone painted over sorrow with the wrong palette. I can hear Mrs. Betty before I see her. Her cries are raw, uncontained. A mother's grief never learns restraint.
Eventually, we leave the house not long after. When we reach the burial site, Elliot moves faster. He lets go of my hand and wraps his arms around his mother, burying his face in her shoulder. I stand back, awkward at first, hands folded, trying to make myself smaller. People glance my way. Their eyes widen slightly.
They know me. Of course they do. I was Elliot's best friend. I was his first love. His ex. I was the girl who always came to their neighborhood . I also was the girl who disappeared.
Nods. Murmurs. A couple of them even whisper my name. Some even greet me in friendly manner. I respond them nicely.
