text: I wear a designer, tailored, three-piece charcoal suit with golden cufflinks and a silk tie dad gave me from a Turkish bazaar when I was ten. You wear a pin-striped dinner jacket with jeans. I wait in my car for more people to arrive before entering. You were here long before anyone else. I greet some old friends and tell them all about my six-week holiday across Southeast Asia, recommending that they avoid tour groups and soak in the culture on a solo voyage. They hang on every word and give me numbers to call sometime soon, which I promptly delete. You vaguely listen with a vacant gaze. I take a swig from my flask while no one is looking. My sponsor congratulates me on being two years sober with a heart emoji and a gif saying ‘Keep it up!’. You see everything from your corner of the gathering. I turn down an offering of tiny quiches, lying to the caterer that I’m lactose intolerant. I haven’t eaten in days. You politely take one, then another, before wrapping them in a napkin and stuffing them down your front jean pocket. I lock the door of the bathroom and splash my face with water. I stare at myself blankly in the mirror and try to recite the speech clutched in my trembling hands. You knock on the door, asking if everything’s alright. I open the door, giving you a dismissive grimace as I re-join the assembly. The host beckons to me and insists we make our way outside as soon as possible before the rain comes. I forgot to bring an umbrella, but I’m optimistic we’ll stay dry when looking at the clouds. You clutch a black umbrella. I let out a strong wolf whistle that I learned from a street vendor in Phnom Penh, bringing the foyer to a hush. I try cheerily to convince everyone to make their way to the lawns, but I’m interrupted by soft chattering. You let out a definitive ‘Oi!’ and tell everyone to shut up before nodding at me to continue. I don’t nod back. Everyone gingerly makes their way outside, umbrellas in hand. You wait for everyone to step out until it’s just us, alone. You go to open your mouth. I brush past you to join the others. You walk towards the procession of black suits, black dresses, black umbrellas and dripping black eyeliner. I can’t look his mum in the eye. You can’t even look at his coffin. I take a deep breath and take a seat with the family. The celebrant says a few words before inviting me to begin the eulogy. I face my former colleagues, teammates, girlfriends, friends, and you. It starts raining, soiling the last-minute words I wrote for him and I struggle to speak. You hand me your umbrella. The service ends, the mourning crowd disperses, and we’re alone again. We lock eyes in silence. We used to have staring contests that would last what felt like hours, all three of us. You offer a teary smile and nod. I drop my stoic veneer and smile back. You grieve. I grieve.