Uncertainty - Stanford Pines x Reader (female)

Chapter 45

I didn't ask her. I couldn't.

After all that, after hearing her voice full of concern, I still couldn't bring myself to tell her about the funeral. It wasn't that I didn't want her there—no, it wasn't that simple. It was more like I didn't want her to see me like this, to see how broken I'd become. Or maybe I didn't want to see the look in her eyes, that mixture of pity and concern that had always made me feel smaller.

The truth was, I couldn't handle anyone else's grief on top of my own. And Willow? She'd try to carry it all with me. She'd insist on it. It was who she was, and it was why I couldn't ask her to come.

I stared at myself in the mirror, dressed in the dark, muted outfit I had picked out the night before. It was one of the few things I had control over—choosing what to wear. Everything else felt like it was slipping through my fingers, like I was drowning in emotions I couldn't manage. My hair was pulled back, face bare except for the shadows under my eyes that told the story of sleepless nights.

My phone buzzed on the countertop, my dad's name flashing on the screen. I stared at it, debating whether to answer. It rang once, twice. My finger hovered over the decline button.

I used to never hold grudges. I always thought they were useless, a waste of energy. But my father's words back then... they stuck in my throat like a bitter pill.

My dad had a habit of trying to shape my life in his image. When I was young, I didn't question it, but now... I knew he'd meant well, just wanting what he thought was best for me. But even though Stanford was gone, the memory of those conversations left a sour taste in my mouth.

So I hit decline, letting the phone go silent again, and went back to my reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at me looked resigned, tired.

I took a deep breath, forcing my thoughts and feelings back under control. I tried to focus on the task at hand—getting through this funeral without completely falling apart.

I gathered my belongings—coat, keys, phone—each item a familiar weight in my hands. I double-checked my reflection one last time, took a deep breath, and headed outside.

The morning air hit my face, a bracing reminder that the world was still moving, regardless of my own inner turmoil. I walked over to my car, parked at the curb.

I slid into the driver's seat, the engine rumbling to life beneath me. I wasn't even sure I was ready for this. But there was no turning back now. Just as I reached for the gear shift, a figure appeared in my peripheral vision. James.

He was walking down the sidewalk, a stack of bread boxes balanced in his arms. His eyes caught mine for a second, then he frowned, set the boxes down on the curb, and knocked on the window.

With a sigh, I rolled it down.

"James? What are you doing here?" My voice came out a little more curt than I had intended, the tension of the morning seeping into my words.

He leaned down to talk to me, his expression a mixture of concern and annoyance. "I'm pretty sure I should be asking you that. Where are you going so early?"

I blinked at him. "The funeral. Did you forget?"

He took a step back, eyes scanning me, finally noticing my dark outfit. "Oh." His expression shifted, and he rubbed the back of his neck. "No, I didn't forget... but... where's Willow?"

I hesitated. "I didn't tell her."
His eyebrows knit together, the confusion deepening. "You didn't...?"

Before I could say another word, James walked around the car and slid into the passenger's seat. "What are you doing?" I stared at him, half-annoyed, half-confused.