Chapter 2

It took a week and a half before Cora’s mom convinced her to go to school again. Stating that it would help distract her.
It didn’t. It’s hard to be distracted from something so life changing. Her classmates worried, they’d been informed of what happened, and pitying looks were surrounding Cora. She tried really hard not to cry in public, but when it inevitably happened she excused herself and returned home.
Back home the struggle for distraction continued. She tried playing video games, mindlessly scrolling on social media, drawing and when not even watching her favorite show worked, she got so frustrated that she threw her TV remote across the room. I don’t think I need to mention that she started crying again, but I will and she did. Her mom came into the room soon after and hugged her daughter, head resting on top of hers, having lost both her husband and the joy she always saw in Cora’s eyes. They’re so dull now. 

I think one of the more painful parts of loss is everything that wasn’t. The words you never shared. The hugs you never gave, at least never often enough. The time that you’d never get to spend together again. The calm breathing you’d feel when resting a hand on their chest. Then there’s what will never be again. The laughs, the quirks, the voice, the presence, them. Cora will never see that reassuring smile her father gave her when she was doubting herself again. At least she’ll have the memory of it. But right now, that memory is too painful to revisit. One day she’ll revisit it and smile. 

Strange. She’s looking around the room as if to look for something. She looks quite confused. Even stranger, and honestly most concerning, I don’t know what is going on inside her head right now. I usually know everything. Why don’t I know? 
“I– don’t… ” She whispers in the air before her. She doesn’t seem to be doing too well, her eyes unfocused and glassy. Despite this, she is going to meet a friend today. 
Her friend arrives soon after, cautiously opening the door to Cora’s room as if any sudden movement would startle her. “It’s okay, I won’t run,” Cora manages a weak and dry chuckle, addressing her friend. The friend, in turn, offers a weak smile and sits on Cora’s bed like she’d done many times before, but this time she sits with a certain weight that was unusual, like she felt out of place.
The name of the friend in question is Isabelle. She and Cora have been each other’s oldest friends and confidants. There is little that they don’t know about each other, like when Isabelle stole Cora’s favorite pen in grade school, which she still has. It’s now Isabelle’s favorite. Or that time when Cora cut off too much of Isabelle’s hair during class and blamed the poor guy sitting next to her. When you’ve been friends with someone for that long, you develop a certain dynamic, like how you come into the room and how you sit on the bed. 
And Isabelle is visibly uncomfortable.
“I don’t know what to say,” Cora’s friend admitted.

“That’s okay, there’s nothing you can say,” and when the other felt like that didn’t explain enough she added, “to help, I mean.”

“I’m sorry,” Isabelle blurted out almost immediately.