Her hospital bed was in the living room. I noticed it the moment I stood in the doorway. Why was it there? It had been taken away months ago, three days after her death. Passed on to someone else who needed it.

As I walked around it, my heart skipped a beat, because she was lying in it. My mother, just as she had looked in her final days. Her hair shaved off, her eyebrows gone, the oxygen tube in her nose. She was so thin, just skin and bones. Her muscles weakened from constantly lying down, what little fat she had completely gone. The cancer had ravaged her, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Mom?" I said softly.

She opened her eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, and looked straight into mine. Her mouth curled into a smile. She reached out her hand to me. I walked over and held it as tightly as I could.

"My beautiful little girl," she whispered, because she couldn't speak any louder. Her lungs had been destroyed by metastases. "I wanted to say goodbye."

Tears welled up in my eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I have to go now, sweetheart," she said weakly, her voice just a breath. "But I wanted to say farewell first."

The tears started to fall and I sobbed. "I love you. I'll always love you."

She gently brushed her thumb across the back of my hand. "And I love you."

The light pressure of her hand disappeared, along with the rest of her, and I was left crying alone beside her bed.

A jolt went through me and I opened my eyes wide. It took a moment for me to understand that it had just been a dream. That I was lying in my bed, in early October, in complete darkness. That it had already been half a year since I had watched the earth fall onto her casket.

I began to cry and covered my mouth with my hand. That was the worst dream I had ever had. As if her spirit had finally decided to walk into the light, but had needed to talk to me one last time.

Because back at the hospital, I hadn't gotten the chance. My father had picked me up from school with the words, "She won't make it through the day." We had rushed to her side, and before I even entered the room, I could hear the respirator working hard. She had suffered so much, because she wanted both of us with her when she left, and as we each held one of her hands and told her we were there, it was already over. So fast that we couldn't even react before the heart monitor went flat and let out that awful sound. We both stared at the screen until the doctor came in and pulled us out of our trance. Then I had run out.

I didn't know if I should start believing in supernatural things or if my brain was just being an asshole. It completely tore me apart just thinking about what had happened in my mind. Nothing had ever been and nothing ever would be worse than that.

Can your heart actually ache from something like this? Because mine did. It hurt so much I put a hand over it and curled up like a fetus. Why was life so cruel to me?

With that thought, I cried myself back to sleep.

❁

The morning was awful. My eyes were swollen from crying, my throat was scratchy, and the memory of the dream hadn't faded. I didn't want to get up, just stay in bed with the blanket pulled up to my nose, staring at the wall, but my bladder and my stomach had other plans. So I peeled myself out of bed and went to the bathroom. My reflection was horrible, puffy face, red eyes, so I immediately looked away.

After using the toilet and brushing my teeth, I didn't even care that my hair looked like a bird's nest, I went into the kitchen and made myself a piece of toast. I wasn't hungry for anything more and probably couldn't eat anything else anyway. That one piece was just so my stomach would shut up.

I sat at the dining table for a while after finishing and stared at the dark wood. It was going to be a shitty day, I knew that the moment I had woken up from the dream. At least I didn't have school, Mrs. Coleman would've only made everything worse, and then I really might've gone for her throat.

I couldn't stop thinking about my mom, not just the version from the dream, but also how she was before the cancer. So I decided to go up to the attic and look through her things. We had packed them in boxes back then and stored them up there because we couldn't bear to part with them.

Her clothes didn't smell like her anymore, the peachy scent of her perfume had faded. It made my eyes well up again, knowing it would one day disappear completely and never come back. I closed the box and opened the next one where I found photo albums. We had more in the living room, but those were from the time she was with my dad. These were older, childhood and teenage years. I lost myself in them, watching my mom grow from baby to toddler, her first day of school, and the first time she was on the ice. That's when I started crying again, because I was the reason she had stopped.

My mom had been a professional figure skater. She discovered her love for it as a child and turned it into a career. She was amazing, her spins and jumps were so graceful that she quickly found a coach who helped her make it big. She won competition after competition, and her trophies still stood in a display case in the living room. Maybe that's why my grandmother and aunt didn't like her. She was constantly reminded of what she herself never had, and my aunt was jealous of her talented sister who kept bringing home trophies. She always wanted to be grandmother's favorite, so she took her side on everything.

My dad once told me that the first time he watched her train, he knew he would fall in love with her because she had been breathtakingly beautiful. That was only after their second date, but he was sure. When she got pregnant, she gave it all up to take care of me. She always told me she didn't miss the competitions, that she was happy to have me, that I was the best thing that ever happened to her. Still, I remembered the wistful looks she gave when she was with me at the ice rink, teaching me how to skate. It had been her passion, and cancer had finally forced her to give it up completely. Since then, I hadn't been on the ice either, even though I had grown to love it, too.

My thoughts were interrupted by the doorbell. Confused, I sat there on the floor, photo album in my lap, my cheeks wet from tears. Then it hit me like lightning: it was Saturday. And a glance at my phone told me it was exactly eleven o'clock.

Shit, I thought as I ran downstairs to open the door for Hiccup. Shit, shit, shit.

He stood at the top step, smiling as always. "Hey," he said, but at the end it sounded more like a question. Probably because I stood there with my head down and my hair still looking like a bird's nest.

"Hey," I said quickly and rushed into the kitchen to grab a tissue to wipe my cheeks, even though it was pointless. He'd still see that I had been crying my eyes out.

I heard him close the door and hang up his jacket. His backpack hit the floor with a dull thud as he took off his shoes. His usual routine when he came over. I kept my back turned to him, trying to breathe evenly. I didn't want him to see my face. Unfortunately, my nose was running and I had to sniff. The biggest giveaway that someone had been crying.

"Everything okay?" he asked then. His voice was closer than the shoe rack. He'd come into the kitchen, shit.

"Yes," I said shortly, hoping he wouldn't hear how hoarse my voice was.

"Are you sure? You don't sound like it."

Why did that make me cry again? Because he was so much more caring than my ex, even though he didn't have to be? Because he was the only one right now who could comfort me? I didn't know.

"Astrid?" he said gently, and I felt his hand on my shoulder as he turned me toward him.

My body took over, I couldn't even think about it before I was already doing it: I put my arms around his waist, pressed myself to him, and soaked his T-shirt with tears. He didn't seem to mind because he immediately wrapped his arms around me and held me tight, resting his head against mine and running a hand through my tangled hair. After last night and this morning, it felt so good to be held by someone. And he smelled so incredibly good.

"I had a horrible dream," I sobbed into his shoulder when I was finally able to speak.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked softly.

"Only if you don't mind."

He pulled back just enough for me to look at him. I was startled since his eyes were teary, too. Had I made him emotional? "Of course I don't mind. Otherwise I wouldn't have asked."

So I told him everything, from the dream to going through her things. He looked at me the entire time and listened carefully. When I finished, he hugged me again and I could breathe in that fresh, slightly sweet scent of his. I loved it.

"I'm sorry about the dream," he mumbled into my hair. "That's really awful." I didn't know what to say, so I stayed silent and enjoyed his hug.

After he let go, I finally blew my nose. That constant sniffling was getting on my nerves.

"I just need to wash my face, then we can sit in the dining room," I told him as I walked into the hallway.

"Or," he began, and I stopped, "we could look through the albums some more, if that helps?" When I didn't answer, because I was stunned he actually wanted to postpone studying for my well-being, he continued. "I mean, only if you're okay with showing me. I'd understand if it's too private and you'd rather study, but I'm totally fine skipping that today, because you're clearly not okay, and who wants to deal with vocab and formulas on a day like this and-"

"Hiccup," I interrupted his rambling. "That's a good idea. Yeah, let's do that. I was just surprised that my emotional state matters more to you than studying."

He looked at me like I'd pushed him in front of a train. "Of course it matters more. Why would you think it didn't?"

I shrugged. "Brandon didn't care. I always had to do what he wanted anyway."

His jaw tensed for a second. "But I'm not Brandon."

I smiled at him. "I know."

You're way kinder and more caring than he'll ever be.

He followed me upstairs and waited outside the bathroom while I washed my face and tamed my wild mane. Then I led him up to the attic and sat back down where I'd been before, Hiccup sitting so close beside me that our knees touched. I showed him the skating album and told him the stories my mom had shared with me.

"So that's where the trophies in your living room come from," he said. "I was wondering whose they were. She must've been amazing."

I smiled and this time, no tears came. I'd probably cried myself dry for today. The album was open to a page where she was eighteen, proudly holding a gold medal for the camera. "She was."

He looked at the picture. "You look a lot like her. Except the nose, that's from your dad."

I laughed and it felt genuinely good. "You have no idea how often I've heard that."

We kept going through the album and he listened attentively to every story, which Brandon had never done. He had never cared, not even that I skated. He had never asked me about it, but Hiccup wouldn't stop.

"So you haven't been to the ice rink in two years?" he said, helping me put the albums back in order.

"About two, yes. It just didn't feel right without my mom. My skates are up here somewhere too, I put them away back then. Maybe I'll take them out again someday." I closed the box and put it back with the others.

"I hope you do," he said with a smile that reached his eyes. "I'd love to see you on the ice."

My cheeks warmed, so I quickly turned away and went down the stairs, Hiccup close behind. We went to the living room, where I showed him the trophies and medals at his request. A little later, my dad came home.

"Well, you two," he said with a smile, closing the door behind him before bending to untie the thick boots that came with his uniform. "What are you up to?"

"I showed Hiccup Mom's trophies and told him about figure skating," I answered, leaning against the couch.

"It's really impressive, all that she achieved," Hiccup said, standing beside me. Was it just my imagination or did he suddenly want to be closer to me?

"Yes, she won many things. You should've seen her on the ice, it was breathtaking," my dad said, pulling off his second boot. He stood up and furrowed his brows when he looked at me. "Why are you still in your pajamas?"

Oh my god, no.

I looked down. Shit, he was right, I was still wearing them. I hadn't even noticed.

"Uhm," I said, trying to hide my embarrassment. "I must've forgotten to change."

He raised his eyebrows but didn't say anything and went upstairs to the bedroom. I looked at Hiccup, who was trying not to laugh.

"You knew it was pajamas."

"Of course I did, I noticed right at the door."

"You jerk!" I said and playfully smacked his arm, which made him laugh. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He shrugged. "Never got the chance."

I rolled my eyes. "Be right back."

With that, I ran upstairs to my room to put on joggers, a bra, and an oversized T-shirt. That's when I realized I'd been sitting next to him for the last two hours without a bra in the cold attic, so he had definitely seen my nipples. My face got so hot again that I just sat on the floor with my hands covering it, questioning all my life choices, before I could go back downstairs and act somewhat normal. Hiccup was driving me absolutely crazy.