"This is all the unexpressed love, the grief that will remain with us until we pass because we never get enough time with each other, no matter if someone lives until 60, 15, or 99. So I hope this grief stays with me because it's all the unexpressed love that I didn't get to tell her. And I told her every day. We all told her every day she was the best of us."

"Do you remember when some of my friends came over for Christmas and we made you play Cards Against Humanity? And you didn't know what a 'glory hole' was so then Alex led a fucking Ted Talk on what they were? Oops, sorry. I know you hate it when I cuss around you."

Charlie cringes as she adjusts her position on the uncomfortable camping chair she plopped down on the dewy grass next to her grandmother's gravestone. It's barely eight am but she's been awake since five. Her sleep 'schedule' makes a mockery of the word and has been chaotic ever since she broke free from her strict household and was unleashed onto Pepperdine's campus. Some nights, aided with extra strength melatonin gummies, Charlie gets a full six hours of sleep, which is downright luxurious. Others, a meager four is all her body allows her and then she runs on a mixture of coffee, a natural peppiness which belies her sardonic sense of humor, and the occasional sugar-free Red Bull she promised her mother she'd cut back on. She hasn't, nor will she. Does anyone ever truly outgrow the teenage urge to rebel against their parents?

She finishes off her first iced coffee of the day and then grabs the flowers she brought with her, along with an empty plastic Target bag. The withered and sad-looking flowers are tossed into it, the old water dumped to the side and is replaced with fresh water from the bottle she brought with her. Charlie fills the vase with a dozen flowers in varying colors. The pop of color is a welcome contrast to the overcast sky. It's supposed to be a beautiful day, the chipper, blonde meteorologist promised earlier on the local news, but right now the sky looks like fresh swirls of concrete. She sits back down and just...talks. About the good things going on in her life - the shop is doing well, her literary star is still on the rise (thank you #booktok and smutty #booktok), she had a really good milkshake the night before. "Your favorite, mint chococlate chip with Oreos. The green kind. I'll never forget when I got my wisdom teeth yanked out. I was high as a kite, in pain, and all I wanted was to drown in a vat of green mint chocolate chip ice cream. I cried when mom brought home a small pint of vanilla. You went right back out and came back wih two tubs of the good stuff, just to spite her." The bad however, Charlie brushes over quickly, a light dusting of G-rated details, because even now, even with her gone, she can't bear the thought of 'telling' her grandmother anything sad. Charlie doesn't tell her sometimes, she nearly forgets... And when she does remember, the abrupt feeling of renewed pain hits so hard it nearly leaves her breathless. Like someone's scooped out her insides and left her hollow.

"I miss you. Mom is on me about trying to set me up again with her friend's nephew. I told her when I met him, my vagina had never been drier. She told me not to say 'vagina', stop being rude and then dropped the subject. I just...really miss you." Charlie's voice cracks on the last word and she looks around, as if worried there's a sudden audience. She is somewhat embarrassed that after nearly two years, she feels the loss of her grandmother so acutely. But grief is a tricky little fucker. It doesn't adhere to rules. After she passed away, Charlie went numb for a while. She tried to turn off her emotions. She attempted to shutter up her heart, hoping it would cauterize the pain at the source. Her grandmother was hers, the one person in the family who didn't judge, who got her. When Charlie was abrasive, she taught her to be gentle(r). When she was stubborn (and it happened a lot), her grandmother told her to stop wearing it like a badge of honor. She showed her compromising didn't mean giving up pieces of yourself. And oh, how the woman loved dirty jokes and embraced her ajumma status with an enviable collection of fanny packs.

Charlie's phone rings and it echoes like a shotgun blast in the quiet cemetery. It's her literary agent with a friendly reminder they're having an early lunch together at Canter's Deli. Like she would forget; Charlie would do a lot of rude, rude things for their latkes. She rises, gathers her things and takes one more discerning look at the floral arrangement. Then she kisses her hand and presses it on top of the cool marble headstone with a soft, "Happy Birthday, I love you."