Greya's POV
Three years later...

Acceptance. Such a complicated word. What it means for one person may not mean the same thing for another.

It's been almost three years since Becker passed, and I'm still learning what it means to accept it — though deep down, I know I never will.

Cope? Sure. We're coping. We have no other choice but to live our lives as best we can without the ones we loved living theirs alongside us.

If coping means making mistakes or changing who we used to be, then so be it. At least we're still trying.

"Chase? You ready? Fynn's going to drop you off at Parker's house while I go to my appointment!" I call down the hall.

"Almost!" he shouts back from his room.

Fynn walks into our tiny kitchen, sliding two bagels into the toaster. "You sure you don't want one?"

"Thanks, Fynn. I'm good. And thanks for bringing Chase to his friend's."

"We're a team, remember?" he reminds me with that half-smile that's kept me grounded more times than I can count.
We are a team. We don't always know what we're doing, but after everything we've been through, we've figured out how to survive — and raise this kid together.

Poor Chase spent six whole months alternating between anger and tears after Becker and Alec died. I wanted to do the same, but I couldn't. I had to be strong for him. Crawling into a hole sounded like heaven, but disappearing isn't an option when someone else depends on you.

So after graduation, I did the only thing that made sense — I sold our family home, packed up our lives, and moved us to Los Angeles.

Chase begged for a new start, and I gave him one. It's been the best decision I've ever made.

My full scholarship pays for our small three-bedroom apartment half a mile from UCLA's campus. It's nothing fancy, but it's ours — and easy for Chase to navigate once he learned the layout.

That first year here was brutal. He insisted on attending a "normal" school, so I enrolled him in a private one. The teachers have been wonderful, and his curriculum is fully accessible in braille. But adjusting was hard — especially while grieving. What happened to Alec and Becker changed all of us.

Therapy helped. Chase and I started seeing a grief counselor together every week, and over time, he opened up more. Now he sees his therapist alone — and so do I. Hence my appointment today.

"I'm ready!" Chase bounces through the kitchen, backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Here's your bagel, let's go," Fynn says, then turns to hug me. "See you tonight."

"Thanks," I murmur, watching as they leave.

Chase has come so far. He's laughing again, making friends — Parker, especially. Parker and his parents have been incredible. They treat Chase like family, and they treat me like someone who isn't broken. It's nice to be reminded good people still exist.

"See ya, Grey! Parker's parents will bring me home after dinner!"

"Okay, bud. Have fun! I love you."

"Love you too, Sis!"

Once they're gone, I decide to walk to my favorite coffee shop before therapy. It's a short walk, and walking clears my head — or at least helps me pretend it does. My therapist says I should live one day at a time, not focus on the future. So that's what I try to do.

One day at a time.

Just Chase. Soccer. School. The people who never left. No dating, no risks. My heart's been broken enough. Becker took the last piece of it with him.

The café is quiet, only one person ahead of me in line. I order my usual — a salted caramel latte — and turn to find a seat.
Most of the tables are empty except one in the far corner. A guy's sitting there, hunched over his laptop. Hoodie up over his head. Odd choice in ninety-degree weather.

As I walk past him, he lifts his head slightly — and inhales sharply, like he's been startled. He twirls a pen between his fingers, and my breath catches.

That movement — that small, familiar habit — knocks the air right out of me.

"Beck..." I whisper before I can stop myself.

My body moves before my mind can process. My heart pounds as I inch closer. There's a white cane under his table. A brace on his leg. He types with one hand while his other hangs  limp by his side. He doesn't see me.

No. No, no, no. This isn't real.

I stumble backward, out the door, my latte sloshing in my hand. The sunlight feels too bright, too loud. I can't breathe.
By the time I reach my therapist's office, I'm shaking and hyperventilating.

"Greya, what happened?" she asks gently, guiding me to the couch.

Tears sting my eyes, but they don't fall. They never do. Because if they fall, then Becker's really gone.

"I saw him again," I finally say.

Her voice stays calm. "You mean in a dream?"

I almost laugh — a broken, bitter sound. "The dreams never stop. Sometimes he's alive and happy. Sometimes he's being murdered. It's never the same." I take a shaky breath. "But this wasn't a dream. I saw him at the coffee shop."

"Did you see his face?"

"No."

"What made you think it was him?"

"He was twirling a pen around his fingers. Just like Beck always did when he was thinking." My throat tightens. "And then I saw the cane and brace, and I realized I was staring at a disabled man — not Becker."

She nods, patient. "Have you seen anyone else you thought was him recently?"

"Last week. At the library. Same hair. Same build. But I never see his face. Do you think I'm hallucinating because I'm forgetting what he looks like?" My voice cracks. "Because I can't remember him clearly anymore?"

"How did you handle it that time?"

"Chase was with me. We just... walked away."

She nods again, jotting notes. "Greya, what you're describing is normal. You never saw Becker's body. There was no funeral. Your mind is trying to find closure where it never got any."

She's right. Becker and Alec were cremated and buried quietly. No viewing. No goodbye. I never saw he was gone, so a part of me still refuses to believe it.

"If I knew what really happened that night," I whisper, "maybe I could finally move on."

"Do you think knowing his final moments — reliving that trauma — would help?"

I shake my head. "No. I don't want to think about him suffering. He suffered enough when he was alive. I just..." My voice falters. "I just want to stop suffering now. I feel like I'm going crazy."

"You're not crazy, Greya," she says softly. "You've survived things most people couldn't. You're still standing. You're raising your brother. You're going to school. That's not crazy — that's strength."

"I don't feel strong," I admit.

"You are. It takes time. Everything does."

I hate that word — time.

She continues, "Let's adjust your medication. Something better for the anxiety and depression. And remember — for every negative thought, find one positive. You have so many. Chase is thriving. You're still playing soccer. You're keeping your grades up. You're surrounded by people who care about you."

I nod, though I'm not sure I believe her.

"I hope you're right," I say softly.

She smiles. "You'll get there, Greya. One day at a time."