𝙄𝙍𝙄𝙎

Grief

JUNE, 1994

Dave sat in the dim light of his room, the blinds half-drawn, a haze of smoke curling around him as he leaned back against the couch. The air felt thick, heavy, like it didn't belong to him anymore. It was the kind of space that had once felt like his sanctuary, filled with the noise of music, laughter, and the chaos that made it all feel alive. But that had been gone for quite some time now.

The world outside felt far away—blurred through the grimy window, distorted by the constant rain that Seattle seemed to never let up on. When Kurt died, something had broken in him, something that felt like it was slowly eroding him from the inside out. He wasn't sure where the numbness ended and the pain began anymore. He hadn't eaten much. Barely slept. He couldn't even bring himself to turn on the guitar in the corner of his room, a part of him not sure if he ever wanted to play again.

The phone on the side table rang, jarring him out of his stupor. It was a sound he could barely focus on, the shrillness of it almost blending into the static of his mind. But then he saw the name on the caller ID. Iris.

For a split second, he thought about letting it go to voicemail. He wasn't in the mood to talk, wasn't sure how to even talk. But Iris was so easy to talk to, and she might even have a chance of understanding how he was feeling. Maybe, just maybe, it could help him.

But with Kurt's death hanging over him like a storm cloud, all that space between he and Iris had turned into a gulf. A chasm between them that felt impossible to bridge. He had failed to consistently call her throughout these past months, it was his own fault that he took that single glow of hope for granted in the midst of his lowest.

The phone still rang in his room. The same name continued to flash on the small screen. Dave stared at it blankly, frozen in place. His fingers hovered over the phone, but suffocating hesitation remained. He hadn't called her in so long—hadn't been able to bring himself to. How could he explain the mess he was in now? How could he even begin to explain to her that, for months, he'd been drowning in his own mind, only now realizing how much he needed someone to reach out?

His hand shook slightly as he finally pressed the answer button. But his voice, when it came, was raw, cracking under the weight of everything he'd been holding back.

"Hey," he said, his words a breathless whisper.

"I'm sorry to call so late," Iris's voice was soft, but there was an unmistakable concern in it. "I've been thinking about you ever since what happened."

Dave exhaled sharply, the sound of it almost painful. "Yeah," he said, the word feeling like a weight too heavy to say. "Yeah, it's been... rough."

She was quiet for a moment, and he could hear the uncertainty in the silence. The grief between them was palpable now, something shared but also unspoken, like two people standing in a room too dark to see clearly but still knowing the shape of each other.

"I can't even imagine what you're going through right now, Dave," she said gently. "I just wanted to check in, see how you're doing. Are you... are you okay?"

He closed his eyes, trying to find a thread of composure, but nothing seemed to hold. The walls of his room seemed to close in, the memories of Kurt, the memories of the band—the life they'd built together—spinning and colliding in his mind. It felt like all of it was slipping away, like everything he'd once believed in had evaporated in a haze of tragedy and confusion.

"I don't know if 'okay' is the right word," Dave finally managed to say. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm... I'm not sure what the hell I am right now, Iris. I don't even know how to deal with it."

"I know," she said softly, like she had known this was coming. "I'm just here, Dave. I don't have the answers, but I can listen. I'm not going anywhere."

He felt a knot twist in his chest. Her words, simple and comforting, hit harder than he expected. He hadn't realized how much he needed someone to hear him, to just be there, without trying to fix anything. But the truth was, he didn't want to burden her with his mess—especially not now. He didn't want her to see him like this, see his apartment like this.

"Thanks," he said, swallowing hard. "I really appreciate it. But... I don't know, I just don't think I can have anyone around right now. Not like this."

He looked around at his room again. The clutter—empty bottles, clothes strewn across the floor, his bed unmade and crumpled. The sheets looked like they hadn't been touched in days. The guitars, usually a source of comfort, now felt like foreign objects in the corner. This was not the person he wanted to let anyone see. Especially not Iris.

Iris's voice came through the phone, steady and warm. "Dave... You don't have to pretend for me. I get it. But just know that if you ever need someone, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

There was something about the way she said it—without judgment, without expectation—that made his chest tighten further. How had she always known how to soothe him in a way no one else did? She understood the silence between them, understood how hard it was to even ask for help.

He took a long breath, trying to steady himself. "I appreciate it, Iris. I really do. I just... I don't think I'm ready for company right now. Not until... I don't know. Not until things feel less... fucked up."

She understood. He could hear it in the quiet sigh on the other end of the line, the way her voice softened. "I get it. But anytime you need to talk—about anything—just pick up the phone, okay? I'm just a call away."

"Okay," Dave whispered, the tightness in his throat making it hard to say more. "Thanks."

There was a long pause, and for a second, Dave thought maybe she was waiting for him to say something else. But he didn't have anything else to give her right now. Nothing that would make sense.

"Take care of yourself, Dave," Iris said gently, before adding, "I'll always be here."

The call ended, leaving the silence to return in full force. Dave sat there for a while, the phone still pressed to his ear as he stared at the mess around him, unable to make himself move. How had everything gotten so lost?

The phone call had lingered in Iris's mind long after it ended. She'd known Kurt for years—had grown up with him, shared moments of both joy and pain, had seen his darkness and his light. But this wasn't just about losing him. This was about watching someone she cared about spiral. Watching Dave, her friend—her only friend in a city full of ghosts—drown in grief in a way that felt so final, so real. It was different for her. She had the clarity of time, of distance, but for Dave? She knew the storm would rage inside him for a long while.

Iris didn't know what to do. How could she? There was no script for this. But she wasn't going to pretend like it didn't hurt her, too.

The days following Kurt's death were filled with a strange mixture of numbness and confusion for her, a quiet grief that she couldn't fully understand. She'd spoken to his family, helped make sense of the chaos, but there were pieces of him that would never come back.

And yet, every time she thought about Dave—about the way he'd sounded, broken but trying to hold it together, just like he always did—her heart cracked a little more.

Iris stared out the window of her apartment, the gray skies of Seattle matching the weight in her chest. She hadn't known how to process her own feelings, let alone help Dave with his. She knew this, of course, but Dave was the first person she'd thought of when she'd heard the news.

Laying down now, she stared at the ceiling, thinking. She wanted to help him.

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A/N

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