The life of an Indefinite Playerr

Chapter 37

The sky hung low over the city like a blanket of mourning, soft gray clouds stretching endlessly above the cemetery grounds. A thin breeze kissed my cheeks as I stepped out of the black car in shackles of silence, freshly released on bail, yet far from free.

I hadn't spoken much since the night at the hospital. Since I watched Patrick slip away in a blur of blood, sterile lights, and final breaths. Since the doctors told me he woke up for a second, looking for something, maybe someone... and then died with my name unspoken on his lips.

Now I stood in front of a grave, my heart aching under the weight of things unsaid.

They were lowering him beside his mother.

I swallowed hard.

A soft piano began to hum through the cemetery's old speakers. "Sing me to sleep... I'm tired and I want to go to bed..." The Smiths. Of course. A song he used to play off his cracked iPod when he thought no one could hear. He even made it his ringtone. Our memories came flushing on me, how we danced to Kodaline, how we watched Five Feet Apart together but now he was just a lifeless being.Melancholy always suited Patrick too well.

The officiator's voice started behind me, calm and deep.

"Patrick was... complex. He lived in shadows, but never stopped searching for the light. In grief, we honor not only his pain-but his fire."

I barely heard the rest. His voice blended into the wind, the chords, the hush of people around me.

Mark and Tracy were there, holding hands. Tracy dabbed her swollen eyes; Mark stared at the casket, jaw clenched like he was holding back screams. Rashin stood near the trees, alone, like always. Zed had a black hoodie over his head. James didn't even try to hide his tears.

Selena stood across the grave, biting her lip, mascara smudged. She laid a photo down-her and Patrick laughing at some long-gone party. Chloe was on the edge of the crowd. No one looked her way. Her father, now in handcuffs somewhere, wasn't coming back.

Macarena. God, I couldn't imagine what she was going through. The one who got away. Her face was unreadable, but her fingers trembled at her sides. She didn't cry. She didn't need to. Her presence said everything. She was always the strong one.

"...He was a fighter," the officiator continued. "And sometimes, those who fight hardest carry wounds the world never sees."

A tremor worked its way up my spine.I stepped closer to the casket. My hands shook as I reached into my coat and pulled out the little notebook-the one full of letters Patrick and I had written to each other but never read aloud. Our chaos, in ink. I laid it gently on the casket.

"He died trying to protect the truth," I whispered. "Even when none of us deserved it."

As the first scoop of dirt hit the wood, a sob broke loose in my throat. My knees buckled, and I crouched beside the grave, brushing the soil with my fingertips.

"I'm sorry, Patrick. I should've told you I loved you before it was too late."

I don't know how long I stayed there-long after the others began to leave, after the last note of the song faded. I sat on the ground, knees muddy, tears dry. The grave looked too small to hold someone so big.

And yet, there he lay.

Asleep.

Forever.