Soooo I know it's been a hot second. The only defense I've got is I have really bad time management skills.


Natara clenches her jaw so hard her teeth hurt. Ordinarily, she supposes, she wouldn't work this hard to contain a scream. But she figures screaming out of frustration, or maybe stress, is a good way to get kicked out of the library. And since midterms are right around the corner, getting kicked out of the library is decidedly something she does not think would help her.

Her study group had been no help at all. It was as if their collective anxiety about their first midterms prevented them from getting anything of substance done, to the point that Natara hadn't even been joining them this past week. Not that her solo studying had gotten her any better results.

Sometimes she wishes she could be like other students, the ones who lived by the motto "Cs get degrees". She wishes she didn't place so much stress on herself, or that she could hold herself to easier standards. She wishes she could just… relax, sometimes. But then she doesn't know if she would still be who she is.

Maybe it would help to take a break, she muses. She's been running flat out for weeks, and she's starting to feel the burnout creeping up on her. She deserves to take a break.

'After midterms,' she tells herself. 'I'll relax after midterms. Maybe I'll even go visit Mal.'

It would be good to see him after so long. She knows he was disappointed when she couldn't visit a week and a half ago. She was disappointed, too, of course. She missed him more than she thought was even possible. She hasn't been able to see him in months. And she hasn't really talked to him since that phone call when she told him she couldn't visit him. God, she was pretty harsh during that call. No wonder he hasn't called her since.

Natara sighs heavily as she closes her textbook and shoves it back into her backpack. She's just not going to get anything done right now, she sees. Might as well abandon the charade that she will. Besides, this could be the perfect opportunity to call Mal and tell him she's going to visit him. Midterms will be over in about two weeks, and she'll have nothing but time for him.

The thought of hearing Mal's voice so soon has her practically running across campus. Some people give her weird looks, but she figures it's chilly enough for them to attribute it to that. Thankfully Eden isn't in their room when Natara flies through the door, saving her from having to explain her hurry.

Her fingers fly across the buttons on the phone- she barely even has to look at the sticky note with Mal's number on it anymore- and she finds herself bouncing on her toes as she listens to it ring. She tries to stop, but doesn't succeed. She's so excited.

"Hello?"

Natara startles at the voice, one she doesn't recognize. She looks at the phone in her hand, wondering briefly if she'd misdialed. But no, she knew she hadn't.

"Hi," she says slowly, "is Mal there?"

There's a long pause. For a moment she's worried the line got disconnected, or that she had dialed the wrong number and the person hung up. But then she hears a small noise on the other end of the line and strains her ears to pick up any other noises.

"Who is this?" the voice asks.

"My name's Natara, I'm-"

"Oh, wait, I know who you are, you're the girlfriend."

"Yeah," she says, slightly annoyed. "Anyway, is he there? I need to talk to him."

"Wait, he didn't tell you?" There's a tone of disbelief in the voice, and it immediately puts her on alert.

"Tell me what?"

"He's not here. He went home."

"Home?" she asks. "But it's only Wednesday?"

"Yeah, he had, uh, a family emergency."

And she knows. She knows exactly what that means, what's happened, why Mal's gone home in the middle of the week. And though some part of her knew it would happen eventually, the floor still disappears out from under her, she's still falling, her mind is still whirling, trying to comprehend, incapable of understanding….

"Oh," is all she manages to make herself say. "Okay. Thanks."

She supposes she hangs up the phone. Her arms feel numb. Actually her entire body feels numb. How could this have happened? There's no way. It can't be real.

She has to try three times before she gets her home phone number right, her fingers refusing to cooperate. Or maybe her hand is just shaking that much? She can't tell. She listens to the phone ringing. Is she even standing up anymore?

"Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Natara, sweetie, what's going on?" Concern floods her mother's tone.

Right, she forgot she almost never calls during the weekdays. Her parents know she's in a rigorous field of study, not to mention all the clubs she's part of.

"Mom, can you come pick me up? I know it's last minute and a really long drive. But something's happened."

The funeral home smells like flowers.

Not good, not like the light smelling flowers his mom kept around the house when she was… when he was a kid. Those always smelled like sunshine and spring and life. He liked those flowers. These flowers smelled heavier, darker, sadder, like death. And no matter where he went in the building, the smell followed.

Maybe it was to cover up the smell of actual death.

He's never been to a funeral before. Most of his grandparents had died before he was born, and the one who had actually lived to meet him died when he was only two, so he'd stayed at home with a babysitter while everyone else went to the funeral. So, his only experience with funerals is whatever he's seen in movies and on television. That's it. And it's a lot sadder than they make it out to be.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," yet another person says as they come up to him and shake first Cynthia's hand and then his. Some people hug them. Others can't quite get the words out. Some stay for far too long and ramble on about what they remember his mom to be. Some people barely stick around long enough to give their condolences. Blaise stopped by earlier in the day, but she left pretty quickly with tears pooling in her eyes. None of them stay at the funeral home for very long.

He hadn't realized that part of being a family member of The Deceased meant you had to stick around for the whole wake. His mom's wake was supposed to last five hours. He's long since lost track of how long he and Cynthia have been here. All he knows is it's pitch black outside the windows, his feet hurt, and he doesn't think he'll ever get the smell of those damn flowers off his skin.

He doesn't look at his mom. Or what's left of her. He can't bring himself to. He could barely stand it when he and Cynthia said their private goodbyes, before anyone else was allowed in. The woman in the casket didn't look anything like his warm, loving mother. The body was too shrunken, too small, too much like a shadow of who had once occupied it. The skin of her face was too tight, the make-up they had put on it too heavy; it didn't resemble his mom's face at all. When he had touched the hand, it had felt too hard, too much like a mannequin.

It's easy to believe that the body wasn't his mom. It's nothing like her at all. So he doesn't look.

Which was why he doesn't realize at first that she was here. He isn't looking in her direction when she walks in, so he doesn't see her kneel down in front of the casket. He's shaking someone else's hand as she bows her head and sheds a few tears. It isn't until she's right in front of him that he recognizes her.

"Mal," she breathes. A second later he throws his arms around her and pulls her close.

"Natara," he sighs. He feels her hot tears wetting his shirt.

"I'm so sorry," she says through her tears. "Mal, I'm so, so sorry. I'm so sorry."

He doesn't respond. He can't. What could he even say? He was sorry too, of course. But that didn't feel like it was enough. No amount of sorrys could bring her back.

Natara pulls back and turns toward Cynthia, who had looked over at them. She gives his sister her condolences as well and shakes her hand, then asks if there was anything she could do to help. He doesn't quite hear Cynthia's response.

"How are you here?" he asks, and Natara turns back to look at him.

"My mom picked me up earlier," she says, wiping at her nose with a tissue. "We drove straight here from my dorm."

"But how-"

"I called your dorm room. Your roommate told me."

"Oh."

There are so many things swirling around his head. He can barely make sense of them. And though he knows there are things he wants to say, he also knows there are things he doesn't. But he finds he can't sort them out from each other, so he opts to say nothing at all.

"I have to go soon, my mom's waiting outside," she mumbles. "I know she's going to want to go home soon. But I'll be there tomorrow, okay? I promise." She steps forward and wraps her arms around him

"Yeah, okay," he mumbles into her hair. "Tomorrow."