Uncertainty - Stanford Pines x Reader (female)

Chapter 43

After hearing it over and over again, I think... I think I finally understood.

At first, I thought it was kindness—people trying to help, trying to show they care. But now, after hearing it from everyone, I realised it wasn't about me. It was about them.

'I'm sorry' was just a way of making people feel like they've done something, like they've helped, in a way, acknowledged the tragedy and could then move on. It was a shield, an excuse to step back into their own lives and leave me drowning in mine. It's not that they didn't care—it's that they didn't know how to care in a way that mattered.

The truth was, sorry didn't do anything. It didn't fill the emptiness. It didn't bring back what was gone. It was just noise, a sound people made when they were too afraid to face the weight of grief. And maybe that was why it bothered me so much—because it felt like I was supposed to accept their hollow words and smile, pretending like it helped, when all it did was remind me how alone I really was.

But what else to offer someone standing in the aftermath of their world collapsing? You couldn't touch grief, you couldn't fix it.

It was like standing in the middle of a storm, and everyone around you was holding up umbrellas while you stood there, already drenched, the rain soaking into your skin, the cold seeping into your bones. And no one could understand it, not really. How could they?

Grief wasn't something you shared. It was something you carried alone. And maybe that's what I had to accept—that no one could pull me out of this. They could offer their words, their gestures, their apologies, but none of it would make a difference.

They could say sorry a thousand times, but at the end of the day, they'd go home, close their doors, and forget. But you never did. You just got better at hiding it, at pretending like the storm wasn't still raging inside you.

And maybe that was the worst part—the pretending. Pretending that 'I'm sorry' was enough, pretending that the world hadn't shifted beneath my feet, pretending that I could go on like before, when everything was different now. Maybe that's what people wanted from me, to act like their words had fixed something, to make it easier for them to go back to their lives.

I guess all I wanted was someone to fight through the rain with me, to get soaked alongside me without the safety of an umbrella, without the need for 'I'm sorrys' or well-intentioned but hollow reassurances. I wanted someone who would look at me, drenched and shivering, and say, 'This sucks. It's not fair. But I'm here, and I'll stay with you until the storm passes.'

'I'm sorry.' ...They were just words. And they were empty too, yes, but so was I.

I stayed at home for days, the minutes and hours blurring together until I couldn't tell what time it was anymore. I had stopped keeping track. My phone buzzed occasionally—messages from Willow, my mom, even a few other friends—but I didn't have the energy to respond. I just... existed.

My mom kept bringing me food, insisting I eat something, but it tasted like ashes in mouth. I spent most of my time lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, occasionally drifting off into fitful sleep. It was like living in a constant fog, unable to find a way out.

It was like the world outside had stopped existing for me, like I'd been dropped into a different dimension where everything was numb and far away. I watched the daylight shift through my window, the shadows stretching and shrinking as the sun moved across the sky, but none of it mattered. I was untethered. Floating.

I don't know how long it had been when I finally heard the doorbell again. It rang shrilly, jarring me out of my stupor. I frowned, sitting up slowly. I was expecting Willow or my mom. Maybe they were back to check on me, worried because I hadn't responded to their messages.