Boyfriend | Cole Hayes

The house buzzes with hushed condolences and clinking plates downstairs. The air is thick with the weight of grief—the kind that presses against your chest and makes it hard to breathe. You've been weaving through the crowd for hours, offering plates of cold cuts and soft smiles, playing the dutiful girlfriend while your heart aches with a loss that isn't yours to claim.

But it is yours. Because his grief is yours. Because you loved his mother like she was your own. Because you've been watching the man you love waste away for seven days, and you don't know how to save him. Cole hasn't shown his face once since the service ended. He disappeared the moment the last prayer was said, slipping away like smoke through your fingers.

A cousin approaches you, her brows furrowed with concern. "Where's Cole? I haven't seen him since—"

You shake your head, gesturing that you don't know. Your voice won't work right now. Your throat is too tight. But you noticed. You always notice. He hasn't eaten anything substantial since she died. Picked at bread. Drank coffee. That's it.

So you made him pasta—his mother's recipe, the one she taught you by heart, with the garlic crushed just the way she liked it and the olive oil drizzled slow. You'd stood at her stove three months ago, following her instructions, while she watched with watery eyes and said, "You take care of him for me when I'm gone, yeah? Promise me."

You promised. You're carrying that promise up the stairs now. The plate feels heavier with every step.

Your brother appears at the top of the landing. His face is tight with exhaustion, his tie crooked, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks at you, and something flickers in his eyes—worry, maybe, or pity.

"He's not in his room," he mutters, jerking his chin toward the end of the hall. "He's in her mom's room. Hasn't come out in hours."

You nod. Walk past him up the stairs. Push open the bedroom door.

The room is suspended in amber—soft, dusty light filtering through half-open curtains, the faint scent of lavender and talcum powder still clinging to the air. Elena's knitting basket rests on the windowsill. A photo of Cole at his high school graduation sits on the dresser, his arm around his mother, both of them beaming at the camera. Her reading glasses rest on the nightstand. Her slippers sit by the bed, as if she might walk in at any moment.

And there, on the floor, with his back against the bed frame—

Cole. Your Cole.

His head rests in Vanessa's lap. Her fingers thread through his messy dark hair, her nails painted a soft pink, the motion slow and rhythmic. His face is buried in the fabric of her black dress. His broad shoulders shake with silent sobs. His breath comes in ragged, hitching gasps. She leans over him, her lips close to his ear, whispering something you can't hear.

He's crying. He hasn't cried in front of you. Not once. Not since his mother died. He's been cold, distant, unreachable—a marble statue of a man who flinched away from your every attempt at comfort. But he's crying in front of her. In her lap.

Vanessa looks up. Her eyes widen. Her fingers freeze mid-stroke. "...Is that... for him?"

You look down at the plate in your hands. Pasta. Garlic and olive oil. His favorite. The one you spent half an hour making while your hands shook with grief you couldn't express. You set it down on the dresser. The clatter echoes through the room—sharp, loud, deliberate. A sound that says something you can't say out loud.

Cole freezes.

His head snaps up. His eyes are swollen, red-rimmed, glassy. His face is blotchy, wrecked, utterly undone. He stares at you, and the guilt crashes over his features like a wave. He knows. He knows exactly what this looks like.

He stands so quickly he nearly stumbles.

"Wait—" His voice cracks, raw and desperate.

You turn. You walk. You don't run, because running would mean you care too much, and you're trying very hard to pretend you don't.

You take the stairs two at a time. The house blurs past—aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, all of them turning to watch as you push through the crowd. Your brother's voice calls your name, sharp with alarm. Someone gasps. Vanessa appears frozen at the top of the staircase.

"Please—just listen to me—" His hand closes around your wrist. His grip is too tight, his fingers trembling, his palm sweaty with nervous heat. "It's not what it looks like. She was just helping me, okay? I was having a—a panic attack. I couldn't breathe. She found me, and I just—I needed someone to—"

You yank your arm free. Your eyes burn. Your throat aches. You don't look at him.

"Cole," your brother's voice cuts through the murmuring crowd. "Not here. Not now."

Cole ignores him. He grabs you again, spins you around, and now you're face-to-face—inches apart—and you can see the wild desperation in his eyes, the way his jaw is clenched tight enough to crack, the way his whole body is vibrating with tension. He's drowning. He's drowning in grief and he's pulling you down with him.

Every conversation in the room dies. Every pair of eyes turns toward the two of you.

"What do you want from me?" His voice is a blade, sharp and cruel. "I just buried my mother. I watched her die. I held her hand while she—" He chokes on the words. Swallows. His eyes harden into something almost cold. "And you're standing there looking at me like—"

He laughs. It's hollow, wrong, bitter. A sound that scrapes against your bones.

"I knew this would happen," he continues, his voice rising. "I fucking knew it. I told myself it was a mistake. I told myself I shouldn't have—" He stops abruptly, his jaw working. His eyes are wet. His hands are shaking. "You never understand what I need. You see one damn moment and suddenly you've decided everything for me."

His breathing grows uneven. His chest heaves.

"Maybe this was a mistake from the beginning," he spits out. "I spent years trying to move on, trying to bury everything, and today... today my mother is dead. And instead of letting me grieve, I'm standing here explaining myself like I've committed some crime."

He wipes his face harshly, his hand trembling.

"I'm exhausted." His voice cracks. "I'm tired of pretending you can give me what I actually need."

His jaw clenches. His eyes are wet, wild, full of pain he doesn't know how to express.

"You were just my best friend's little sister," he says, the words landing like a slap. "That's all you've ever been. I don't know why I ever thought this could—"

He stops. Swallows. Looks away.