Grief 7.9

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Sunlight knifed through the blinds, slashing jagged lines of gold across Greg's room like some discount light show. He sprawled on the bed, limbs splayed out like a chalk outline at a crime scene, one sock half-off his foot, an arm dangling over the edge as if he'd kicked the bucket mid-nap. Greg stared up at the ceiling like it owed him money, eyes boring holes through the drywall.

Honestly, he wasn't really looking at it—more like looking through it, his mind spinning its wheels, stuck in the mud of every other place he'd rather be. Literally anywhere else. Maybe a beach in Hawaii, sipping on one of those fancy drinks with the little umbrellas.

Definitely not here, getting ignored by his not-quite-girlfriend.

His phone sat next to him, a black mirror of existential misery reflecting his own scowling face whenever he glanced at it.

No new messages.

No notifications.

No hope.

Outside, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark of some neighbor's ankle-biter of a dog provided the perfect soundtrack to his pity party.

Chef's kiss, really. Couldn't have scored it better himself.

The phone buzzed, a faint, useless vibration that only reminded him of everything it wasn't. Like, oh, say, a call from Emma.

An explanation.

An apology.

Anything other than the deafening silence that had become the norm. Greg didn't even bother glancing at the device this time. The rejection hotline that was her voicemail had become the broken record of his day, the soundtrack stuck on repeat. Call, ring, beeep—rinse and repeat.

It was enough to make him want to launch the stupid thing out the window.

Or maybe at the neighbor's yappy dog.

Apparently, he hadn't learned his lesson about beating his head against metaphorical brick walls that only left him with a migraine the size of Texas. He'd stared at the "message sent" screen long enough to memorize every pixel, waiting for that little "delivered" checkmark to pop up like a sucker praying for a miracle in the desert.

Nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

No reply, no acknowledgment, no "Hey, sorry for leaving you on read for a week, my goldfish died."

Nothing.

No reply.

No acknowledgment.

Earlier—and by earlier, he meant "I should change my name to Desperate"-o'clock—he'd tried calling Emma's number.

Again.

And again.

It spiraled straight to voicemail every single time, her chipper, automated greeting feeling more and more like a giant middle finger with each listen. At this point, Greg could recite it from memory, right down to the peppy little "Have a great day!" at the end. What a joke.

Voicemail, every time.

Not even a text back.

Frustration simmered beneath his skin like lava, poking at him like a splinter he couldn't quite dig out no matter how hard he tried. It itched, festered, a constant nagging sensation he couldn't shake.

Seriously, what had he done to deserve the cold shoulder from her? From her whole family? He thought they'd actually liked him. Well, Emma's mom, at least — always smiling at him like he was already her son-in-law or something.

Greg's fingers drummed against the edge of the bed, an erratic beat, like a malfunctioning metronome. His thoughts raced, chasing each other in dizzying circles. Look, he wasn't an idiot—he could tell when someone was cutting ties. Giving him the ol' "it's not you, it's me" without having the balls to actually say it to his face.

But still, no warning? No explanation? Just straight up radio silence?

From the girl whose life he'd literally saved, like twice over.

So this was ‘getting ghosted’. Man, it felt like shit.

Complete and utter shit.

"What the hell did I even do?" Greg muttered to the ceiling, half-expecting the white plaster to crack open and reveal some divine wisdom.

It didn't, of course.

The ceiling remained as silent and unhelpful as ever, leaving him to stew in his own thoughts.

Emma's dad had been absolutely livid when he'd seen Greg looking perfectly untouched while his daughter lay comatose in a hospital bed. That was... what, a month ago now? Maybe more? Time had started to blur together, the days bleeding into each other like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. The man had assumed all sorts of things, his mind jumping to the worst possible conclusions. Like Greg had just left Emma there, unconscious and bleeding on the pavement, and ran off to save his own skin.

It had taken his mom stepping in and explaining that Greg had personally gotten Emma to an ambulance and stayed with her all the way to the hospital for the man to even begin to calm down. Not that Greg could really blame him for his anger. Hell, he was mad at himself.

Mad for not being faster, for not trusting his Danger Sense more, for not... for not being better.

"-ABERRRR!"

The sudden shout jolted Greg out of his spiraling thoughts, his head snapping towards the source of the noise.

Oh.

Right.

His PC.

The monitor was still playing the intro video to Fate/Stay Night: New Star, the game he'd booted up in a fit of nostalgia and then promptly forgotten about. The looping animation flickered in the dim light of his room, the dramatic music swelling in a vain attempt to hype up a game Greg had already played to death.

God, this was a mistake. He wasn't even sure why he'd turned it on in the first place. Maybe it was a desperate grab for nostalgia, a futile attempt to recapture some sense of normalcy. Or maybe he'd just done it out of sheer boredom, because everything else felt too exhausting to even contemplate.

On the screen, Saber's sword gleamed as she struck down yet another faceless enemy in the cinematic. It used to give him chills, that scene. Now it barely even registered.

Yeah, it all just felt... hollow. The once-epic storylines and flashy fights he'd loved in one of the best selling RPGs out of Japan since Leviathan were just... meh now. Like chewing flavorless gum, going through the motions without any of the satisfaction.

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"Nostalgia, my ass," Greg muttered, pushing himself up and sitting cross-legged on the bed. The springs creaked beneath him, the sound startlingly loud in the otherwise silent room. The game wasn't the problem.

Not really.

It was just... everything. Everything piling up at once, like a bad anime filler arc that wouldn't end no matter how much he wished for it.

His mind drifted back to the capes from the other day. Well, the other-other day. Not Quantum and Woody. That fight was a whole different mess, and honestly? Kind of fun, in a weird, masochistic sort of way. Annoying as hell, sure, but at least they'd been interesting. Those two fought like they were playing co-op mode on the hardest difficulty setting, bouncing off each other's attacks like they'd spent years choreographing their moves.

They were professionals, through and through, and it showed.

Every punch, every kick, every blast of energy—it was all so clean, so precise, so fucking flawless. Like watching a ballet, if ballerinas could bench-press trucks and shoot laser bombs out of their fingers. It was cool, in a way, seeing that level of skill in action.

But it was also a total pain in the ass to fight against.

No wild, brawling chaos.

No room to just... go even the slightest bit apeshit.

They'd been too clean, too skilled, too fucking precise.

It reminded him of fighting Slique, that slippery bastard with the friction control. Fun in the way a final boss fight was fun, more than anything: stressful, infuriating, and something you couldn't stop thinking about after it was over.

Greg flexed his hand, watching the faint flicker of sparks dance across his fingertips like miniature fireworks. They were almost mesmerizing, in a way. A tiny light show just for him. Fighting capes like Quantum and Woody was one thing, but dealing with the other nonsense? The Dragons? The Triad? Yeah, those were actually fun.

Annoying but fun.

Way more fun than the endless parade of "kill Greg Veder" attempts that seemed to be the new normal these days.

Those guys, the meathead thugs who liked to brawl and scream and punch and smash? They were a breath of fresh air. It felt like fighting Lung again, but like... mid-boss level. He wasn't scrambling to survive against them, constantly on the back foot and just trying to stay alive. No, with them, he could let loose a little. Cut the leash and really go wild.

The mercs, on the other hand?

They were just exhausting.

Despite neither Quantum nor Woody doing all that much damage to him in the grand scheme of things, he'd much rather fight another Mako, or an Akuma, or a Jiangshi (just not all at once), than deal with another super-skilled merc out for his head.

At least those Flying Dragon goons were all about making fights fun. There was no smashing, no brawling, no letting loose with the mercs. It was a surprise skill-off every damn time, like they were constantly trying to one-up each other with how many fancy moves they could pull off.

Christ, taking down four capes was a hell of a lot easier when it was one-on-one. Or at the very least, two at a time.

That teleporter guy, Ansatsu? Barely a hassle in the end.

But Greg wasn't dumb enough to think that the guy might not be able to move faster than his Danger Sense could react to, given the right circumstances.

Teleportation, super speed... it was all the same past a certain point.

He wasn't taking any more chances, not after the last few close calls.

And that fucking Terracotta guy?

God, what a joke.

He cried like a baby, spilling his guts and telling Greg everything he wanted to know, all the while begging him not to break his arms like they were made of glass. It was honestly kind of sad, in a pathetic sort of way. But still, the guy had led Greg to another safehouse in the end, another hideout of the Dragons that he could cross off the list.

And another one of their capes, too.

Taken down like it was nothing.

Really, it had just taken some fists and some fire. Honestly, it was almost too easy. Where was the challenge? The thrill?

Greg sat up suddenly, dragging his hands through his hair, which was now sticking up in a way that screamed "not even trying." His fists clenched, the faintest flicker of heat curling against his palms before he forced it back down. Tamped it down like a campfire that was getting just a little too big for comfort.

"Can't punch away my feelings," he muttered, the words bitter on his tongue. "This is bullshit. Why is everything so bullshit?"

It was a rhetorical question, of course. He knew why everything was bullshit. It was because the world was just “Like That”, and no amount of punching or slashing or fire-throwing or screaming at the ceiling was going to change it. But that didn't make it any less frustrating. Any less infuriating.

A sharp ding-dong jolted him out of his spiral, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet of his room. The doorbell. He blinked, head snapping towards the sound like his brain had to physically catch up to the real world. Who the hell even comes by unannounced anymore?

Greg frowned, glancing at his watch. 4:17 pm. The numbers glowed back at him, almost mocking in their steadiness. Who the hell was ringing his doorbell in the middle of the afternoon like this was the 1950s and they were trying to sell vacuum cleaners?

The bell rang again, more insistent this time, like whoever was on the other side was getting impatient. Or maybe they just had a really heavy finger. Who knew?

"Hold your horses," Greg grumbled, dragging himself off the bed with a groan that was half-annoyed, half-resigned. It wasn't like he had anything better to do, anyway. Maybe answering the door would provide some much-needed distraction from the never-ending spiral of his thoughts.

He was already padding halfway down the stairs before he realized he wasn't even wearing shoes. Or socks, for that matter.

The old wood creaked under his feet with each step, announcing his presence to the entire house. Greg darted to the door, his heart kicking up just slightly in his chest. What if it was a package? Or worse—another bounty hunter, who managed to find out where he lived and was ready to take his head?

But why would they be ringing the doorbell?

He pushed that thought aside as his fist sparked faintly as a precaution, tiny arcs of electricity dancing across his knuckles. The other hand yanked the door open in one swift motion, ready for whatever fresh hell awaited him on the other side.

"Hey—" The word caught in Greg's throat, lodging there like a fishbone.

He froze, his brain screeching to a halt like a record scratch.

There she was.

There she was — Taylor Hebert, standing on his porch like a glitch in the matrix. The girl he hadn't seen in... God, how long had it been? Weeks? Months? It felt like a lifetime ago, a different era entirely. What was she doing here?

She looked the same as he remembered, and yet... different, somehow. Still long-haired, still bespectacled, still awkwardly stiff like she didn't quite know what to do with her limbs. But there was something in her eyes, behind the glasses, a lightness that hadn't been there before. She looked… less tired, to put it simply.

Taylor wasn't looking directly at him, her gaze hovering somewhere over his left shoulder like she couldn't quite bring herself to make eye contact. But the expression on her face? Woof. It was somewhere between "I made a huge mistake" and "Please don't make this weirder than it already is," with a dash of "I'd rather be anywhere else right now" thrown in for good measure.

Greg's brain short-circuited for a second as he stared at the girl who had once been taller than him.

Now, he realized with a jolt, he was actually looking down at her, just slightly.

When had he gotten taller than Taylor freakin' Hebert? When did that happen? When had he gotten taller, grown into his own gangly limbs and started to fill out? Greg couldn't remember. It felt like it had snuck up on him when he wasn't paying attention, like so many other things lately.

Another second ticked by. Then a third. Greg managed to close his mouth after what felt like an eternity of gawking, finally croaking out a highly intelligent, "Uh... hi?"

Taylor exhaled, her shoulders dropping a fraction like she'd been holding her breath. "Hi," she said, her voice quiet but still sharp enough to cut through the haze in Greg's head. "Can I – can we talk?"

Greg stepped aside without thinking, holding the door open wider in a silent invitation. "Uh, yeah. Sure. Come in."

But Taylor hesitated, glancing behind her like she was expecting someone to swoop in and snatch her away at any moment. Then she shook her head, a quick, jerky motion. "Actually... Can we talk outside?"

Greg blinked, a thousand questions colliding in his head like bumper cars at a carnival. Why was she here? Why now, after all this time? What did she want to talk about? Was something wrong? Did she need help?

But instead of asking any of them, he blurted out the first thing that popped into his head. "You hungry?"

Taylor frowned, clearly caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. "What?"

Greg shrugged, leaning against the doorframe in a way that he hoped looked casual and not like he was internally losing his goddamn mind. "I mean, we can talk outside or whatever. But if we're gonna talk, we might as well grab food first, right?" He gave her a quick once-over, taking in the way her clothes seemed to hang off her frame. "You look like you haven't eaten in... like, a week."

It was an exaggeration, of course.

Taylor's expression shifted, something flickering behind her eyes that Greg couldn't quite place. Surprise, maybe? Gratitude? Annoyance? It was hard to tell. She sighed, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her hoodie like she was trying to hide them. "Yeah. Okay. Food first."

Greg grinned, stepping out onto the porch and pulling the door closed behind him. "Great. Wings? Burgers? Or are you one of those, like, salad people? Because I gotta warn you, I don't trust anyone who willingly eats leaves."

Taylor shot him a look that was almost a smile, almost a glare, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. "Wings are fine."