The Right to Mourn Solo

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕽𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝕸𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖓

The afternoon sky is overcast. Thin clouds followed several days of bright, clear skies. It was about time, Sinclair had thought. Despite the slight humidity, there is a light, warm breeze. The realist sits at the ground by the bench at the great lake- the usual spot where she often encountered a certain freezing blonde last year. Freezing... no matter what the weather.

Stay warm, she remembers saying. Sinclair fidgets with the tip of an antler she'd been aimlessly shaving down over the summer- out of frustration? Hopelessness? Irritation? Whatever it was, with every grind of her knife against the antler, Syrah had been on her mind more than she'd like to admit. Did she really consider giving this ragged piece of bone to her?

For a moment, it's suddenly too peaceful. Her skin prickles as she stares into the water, and something disturbs the calm surface. A fish, perhaps...or something else. Maybe it could drag her into the water and make everything disappear. Is this sensation really intuition? Or desperation masked as some kind of sixth sense?

Regardless of the brief unsettling feeling, Sinclair couldn't help but feel like an utter idiot. Messaging Eldred over the summer proved to be fruitless, but as for Syrah...? She hadn't even asked for the girl's address. Telling Mr.Montague to "give this to Syrah Vintera" did not lead to any procuring of useful results- only several return-to-senders and a very confused owl who expects a treat anyway. Besides, one does not simply ask the address of someone like that. What would've happened? Sinclair can only assume Syrah would've possibly looked at her with irritation, or maybe let slip one of her rare smirks, or better yet- a display of that I guess it cannot be helped attitude that absolutely charmed Sinclair regardless of if she realised it or not.
I should've asked.

A twist of doubt and disgust hangs over light hazel eyes. I should just give up, she's not going to come. That cold, empty apathy swells in her chest again, devouring her from the inside.
Like a black hole.
The thought alone made her unwell, and in a sudden burst of frustration she throws the antler piece into the water, watching it sink with flushed cheeks.
How utterly irrational.
Sinclair's lips slowly twist into a smirk, and a single harsh laugh forces its way out of her throat despite the hand clasped over her mouth trying to hold it in.
God... If she saw me right now it would be embarrassing. How goddamn cringe.
The feeling fades just as spontaneous as it had erupted, and her visage melts into blankness again. With a somewhat glum sigh, her back meets the warm grass and she watches the blinding sky peek through the lush leaves of the nearby tree. She briefly thinks of her family, summer, and the funeral.

...What right have I to mourn something that was barely there?