He’s real because I’ve heard Elea’s stories. Because her stories of grief sit inside her stories of love, and I know him through both things. Vasu is real, not just because I can see a picture of him happy and alive; he is real because I get to witness the story behind the story of each photograph his mother shares. I get to see the sleepless nights in my friend’s face. I get to see Vasu become, as Elea wrote, “more tumor than boy.” I get to see the days death came and went, and the day death came and stayed. I get to see how grief carves itself into her, shadowing each step. I get to see the
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