Only If You're Lucky

by Stacy Willingham

I still read for school, of course—as an English major, that’s impossible to avoid—but ever since I lost Eliza, every time I’ve tried to flip open the pages of an old favorite, immerse myself in something mindless, the words won’t melt in my mind the way they used to, warm and smooth like freshly whipped butter. Instead, every sentence feels clunky, hard, taunting me like they’re written in some foreign tongue, completely illegible. I guess that’s the thing about grief, loss: it changes everything, not just you. Colors are duller, foods are blander. The words don’t sing like they used to.

all those tumultuous things that present themselves during the fragile years—years so fragile they were always in danger of shattering completely if not for that one friend who helped you hold it all together.

“The only thing that makes bad things bad are the consequences, right? Think about it. The fact that we’re all here right now means we’re all a little morally loose.” She grins as she says it and everyone is quiet, looking around, suddenly feeling so exposed. I can’t help but flush as I take in the empty bottles we pulled from the bar; the liquor we drank that isn’t ours. The way we’re all sitting here in this place we don’t belong, acting like we do. She’s right, I realize. If there’s one thing Lucy’s taught me since the moment we met, it’s that once you bend one rule without consequence, it feels a lot easier to break the others.

Instead, I just latched on to Eliza, zeroing in on all the places she was full where I was hollow and hoped that if I lapped them up for long enough, they’d pool their way in and fill me up, too.