I’m currently working on a whimsical romcom, and I just wrote one of my favorite scenes (that may or may not make the final cut):
“Grief sucks, sure,” I say softly, my eyes distant, voice lined with something even I can’t identify. It sounds almost like fatigue. “It guts you. Ruins you to the point of no return. But what really breaks you isn’t the grief itself. It’s the way people look at it—at you. They don’t see your grief as something sacred or shattering. They see it as a warning. Or a mirror, even. And when they look into your pain, all they really want is reassurance that it’s not theirs. That it won’t be. That your tragedy is a fluke, a footnote, a mistake they’d never make.”
I pause, feeling the emotion washing through me. But I continue talking, swallowing hard. “When someone dies of an illness, they ask questions not to understand and sympathize, but to distance themselves.‘Did she eat too much sugar?’, ‘Was she unhealthy?’, “Was it genetic?’ Not out of sympathy. But to convince themselves they’re safe. That if they do everything right, it won’t touch them.
“ And if it’s an accident, they ask why, like it’s a puzzle with a single solvable answer. ‘Maybe she wasn’t crossing the right lane.’ ‘Maybe she was distracted.’ Because if they can find something to blame, then they can believe that they’re immune.”
I turn to Luca, my eyes watering but I don’t care anymore.
“And then the worst part is they turn your heartbreak into a parable. A story with a moral. A lesson in what not to do. They say things like, ‘That wouldn’t happen to me. I’m careful. I pay attention.’ As if caution is a shield against loss. As if love and death and disaster are things you can outsmart. As if grief is a punishment, and they’re the righteous ones.”
Luca doesn’t say anything at first. He’s just watching me, quiet and still. I think he wants to help, but what could he even say?
“I’m sure they mean well,” he murmurs.
A tear escapes down my cheek, and I don’t wipe it away. “ Of course, they mean well. They always mean well. And that’s what makes it so hard to be angry. They say all the right things: ‘I’m here for you,’ ‘You’re so strong,’ ‘Time heals.’ like it means anything. But it doesn’t. They’re just standing there, watching from the outside, pretending that by giving you a few words, you’ll be fine. They show up for the funeral, not the aftermath. They hold your hand when your voice breaks. But they don’t come for the after. They don’t sit with you in the quiet. They don’t stay when the silence is too loud and your grief starts to rot into loneliness. They don’t see that the hardest part isn’t the moment you lose someone. It’s every single day after that they’re still gone and the world keeps expecting you to function like you’re not slowly unraveling.”
I exhale shakily. My voice is barely there now. “The truth is… people only look at your grief long enough to feel grateful it’s not their own.” I meet his eyes. “And then they look away.”
The silence that follows is thick. Real. He doesn’t try to fill it with cliches. He just stays there while I break down like I’ve exploded from all the things I’ve bottled up.
And then, in the lightest gesture, as if he’s scared to startle me, Luca reaches for my hand.
“I would,” he whispers.
I look up at him, confused. “You would what?”
He gives the softest smile. “I’d sit with you in the quiet.”
Kyra Ysabel: Romcom Author 
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