Dying Is The Easy Part

Epilogue

Quinn had never lost someone. Their grandparents were all still alive, save for their mom's father, who had died even before Quinn had been born; everyone else was healthy and well. They'd thought about how it had to feel though, especially when their mom had told them about Jun when they were younger. Somehow, they'd always imagined loss to be a piercing sort of pain, something sharp and insistent that only grew duller after weeks, months, years.

The grief that they felt in the days after Imbolc wasn't that at all. It was mellow, and it came in waves. Some days, they would be so overwhelmed by it they could hardly concentrate in class; other times, they overheard something funny around campus and tried to remember it so they could tell Vincent about it later, only to remember that he wasn't there anymore.

"You've lost six people in one night," Valerie had told them when they'd sat on their bed the first day after Imbolc and their entire body had felt too heavy to get up, much less to go to class. "Be gentle with yourself. You can take it as slow as you need to."

Quinn had tried to listen to her advice. They spent a lot of time watching Gravity Falls in bed, sipping the herbal tea Rhia had brought them, for healing and perspective. They had dinner with Valerie and the Greenbrooks every night, losing themself in the warmth and the chatter and the comfort of being around people who didn't expect them to talk or make jokes or pretend as if nothing had happened. A few times, they drifted over to the art classroom—not because they thought they would find Vincent there, but because it was easier to remember him when they were sitting in the windowsill in the moonlight.

That was what they were the most afraid of: to forget the way he looked, the way his voice sounded, how he'd moved and laughed and frowned.

It was the reason they'd started to paint again. Night after night, they sat on their bedroom floor with the watercolors Valerie had gifted them, listening to the Ghost Jams playlist they had made on loop and using their sketches from the last few weeks as a reference to bring them back to life.

They painted Vincent and Hannah sitting in the windowsill, her head resting on his shoulder, his newsboy cap sitting askew atop her curls as he told her a story. Joy and Jun in the empty classroom, Joy's head lying in Jun's lap, her features so vulnerable as she gazed up at him while his hand toyed with the spikes on her collar. Vincent leaning down to speak into the spirit box in Luis's room, nervous but at the same time so relieved. Jun sitting on the couch in the café, blinking away tears while he looked at his sister. Caleb and Josie playing tag in the snow-covered courtyard in their pajamas, faces alight with glee. Joy giving Hannah a piggyback ride. Vincent dancing the Charleston, a stupid grin on his face as he sang along to the lyrics.

Finally, Quinn painted themself. It was the most difficult piece they'd ever done. For hours upon hours, they sat on the floor, gazing at themself in the little hand mirror they'd placed next to their sketchbook.

The finished painting looked like this: there were three versions of Quinn. The first was seen in side-profile, facing to the left. It was them around new year's; ghostly pale and with dark circles under their eyes, their hair-dye faded, their arms folded across their chest like they were trying to hold themself together. Their vacant stare was directed at the ground, their shoulders drawn up to their ears, as if they were trying to neither see nor hear what was going on around them.

The second was in side-profile as well, but facing to the right. It showed Quinn the way they had probably looked when they'd been with Vincent or Luis: their back was straight, their eyes bright as they looked up at one of them, crinkling at the corners with how big they were smiling. Their hair was blue again, and above their outstretched hand hovered a few drops of water.