Lydia wears a simple black dress; it's the same one she wore to Allison's funeral last year. She had hoped she'd never have to wear it again, especially not so soon. Naive of her considering what her life has become: Werewolves and Kitsune and Banshees. Loss comes with the territory. At least, that's what she tells herself in moments of weakness, when she feels like she can't breathe, let alone get up and act like she's okay.
And she has to be okay, because Stiles is a mess.
He hasn't been able to sleep through the night in the week since Malia's death. The first night was the worst: she held him as he screamed her name, his body thrashing, his face wet. Lydia had laid with him until his lungs gave out and his throat was raw. And still, he whimpered, as if he needed to let all of the grief out or else it would crush him entirely. She understood his grief, understood what it was like to feel your heart thrashing around inside your ribcage, clawing its way out in order to escape its own torment. So she just stayed with him and held him into the night until he was empty.
That morning, she watched as he slept, his face peaceful and unburdened, and she was sure that he was in a dream somewhere in his mind, a dream in which Malia was still alive. But eventually, as with any dream, he awoke from it disappointed with reality. She could see it on his face, could pinpoint the exact moment he remembered the harsh truth of Malia's death. His brown eyes shone like glass on the brink of shattering. She held him then, too.
Now she walks up to the casket, passing Scott, the sheriff, and Mr. Tate on the way. The casket is a simple black box, such an unfit representation of the body it holds. On it Lydia lays a rose, a vibrant but vicious flower that never fails to remind her of her friend. She makes sure to let the thorns cut her hand before putting it down, knowing that nothing beautiful ever comes without pain. She hopes Malia is somewhere out there, grinning about the Banshee getting her hands dirty.
When it's time for the eulogy, she lightly kisses Stiles on the cheek before taking her place in front of the intimate gathering. As she looks out at the small crowd, each face that looks back wears a different expression of grief. Unfolding her speech, Lydia takes a deep breath and begins.
"Thank you all for gathering here today to celebrate the life of Malia Tate." She clears her throat, feeling like her voice needs more power behind it. "Malia was a fierce friend and a loving daughter." Lydia takes a moment to lock eyes with Mr. Tate. "But she was more than that: she was a fighter, a survivor. I don't think I've ever met anyone as strong as she was, and I doubt I ever will." Lydia allows herself a small smile. "This life is cruel to us all: it knocks us down again and again, and it doesn't always wait for us to get back up. Malia felt this cruelty all too often. But she was able to endure it; she even found a way to thrive in the midst of it, a feat that will continue to inspire me as long as I live." Lydia's throat is beginning to close up, but she powers through it, feeling like Malia is here with her somehow.
"Grief is similarly cruel. Sometimes it can feel as though our pain is crashing against us, begging us to break entirely. But we will survive it, if not for ourselves, then for those we've lost. Because they deserve to be honored." The tears are falling now for the first time since the day it happened, since Lyida's cries echoed in that godforsaken temple where Malia's final breath left her body. "My mother used to say that the dead are still with us, that their spirits live on. I used to ask her if she meant that they were in heaven, but she would just shake her head. She said they were in here." Lydia places her hand on her heart. "And in so many ways, they are. But they're also in here." Lydia points to her head, specifically her brain. "I believe that Malia lives on in our minds, in every experience we've ever shared, every word we've ever exchanged." Tears have stained the sheet of paper with her words on it. "She's alive in our memories, and as long as we still have them, she'll never truly be gone."
Lydia feels it then, as the breeze picks up at the end of her speech: a soft brush on her right shoulder. She looks over and finds a vibrantly red leaf resting on her skin, its color contrasting with the green shades of the spring foliage. And somehow, she knows that Malia truly is with her, that her friend has heard her goodbye, that she'll be okay. Lydia smiles peacefully and walks over to Stiles. The group gets up to lower the casket, and Stiles catches her in a soft hug.
"I love you," he whispers into the skin of her neck, the grief in his voice lessened by the hope in his words. Lydia tightens her grip on him, burying her face in his shirt, taking in the comforting scent that is Stiles. The wind blows all around them, drying their tears on their faces.
"I love you, too," Lydia says, and it's more than a confession. It's a promise. A promise to stand by each other when times are hard, a promise to build a future together, to love each other until their broken pieces don't cut them anymore.
That's what love is: a never ending vow.