(Tom's POV)
Grief is a strange thing.
At first, it's a sharp, jagged edge that slices through your chest every time you breathe. You wake up in the morning and realize that she's not there beside you. Her laugh, her voice, the way she would softly hum in the kitchen while making coffee—those things are gone, and you don't know how to fill the void.
For weeks, I could barely function. I just went through the motions. My friends checked on me, but they didn't understand. They didn't know what it was like to lose the person who had been your whole world.
I was a shell of myself.
The house felt cold, empty. Even the walls seemed to mourn Emma's absence, her absence echoing in every room, every corner.
I didn't want to be around people. I didn't want sympathy or pity. I didn't want to have to explain that I was broken, that my heart ached every time I thought about the life we'd planned together—how it was all gone in an instant.
But then, there was Lilac.
She came by every few days, as if on cue. At first, I thought it was just because she wanted to help—maybe my uncle had sent her to check on me, or maybe she just felt sorry for me. But then I realized it was more than that.
She started staying longer, offering to cook, to clean, to just sit with me. And I let her. She was a sweet girl, after all, and there was something comforting about her presence. She wasn't a constant reminder of Emma. She wasn't the one I'd lost.
But I could see the way she looked at me—too long, too intensely.
It unsettled me.
I remember one afternoon, sitting on the couch, staring out the window at the rain as it hammered against the glass. The house felt colder than usual. I hadn't spoken to anyone in days.
Then, she walked in—Lilac, holding a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, a soft smile on her lips. "You look like you could use this."
I didn't say anything, just took the cup from her. It was warm, and the steam felt comforting against my hands.
"Thank you," I muttered, my voice thick from disuse.
She perched herself on the edge of the coffee table, her eyes scanning me as if trying to figure me out.
"You know, it's okay to feel this way," she said softly, almost as if she were reassuring herself more than me. "You don't have to keep it all inside."
I stiffened slightly. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate her kindness, but I didn't want to talk about it. Not to her.
I forced a smile, but it didn't reach my eyes. "I'm fine, Lilac."
She studied me for a moment, her expression turning thoughtful. "You don't look fine.
I exhaled sharply, looking away. "I'm not."
Her gaze softened, and she reached over, placing her hand on my arm. It was a small gesture, but it caught me off guard. My muscles tensed involuntarily at the contact, and I pulled my arm away, not harshly, but enough to create some space between us.
"Sorry," she murmured quickly, but I could see the hurt flicker in her eyes.
I didn't mean to hurt her feelings. I didn't want to push her away, but I couldn't let her get too close. Not like this. Not when I was still trying to figure out how to live with the hole Emma had left behind.
But she didn't leave.
Instead, she stayed—sitting silently beside me, offering quiet words of comfort that I couldn't bring myself to acknowledge. I knew she meant well, but I wasn't ready to move on. I wasn't ready to let go of Emma.
The truth was, I didn't want to.
Lilac's presence became a constant, her