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“I’m sorry,” I choke out against his hospital gown. “I’m so fucking sorry, Archer. This should be me lying here, not you. Not you. I love you.”

I break, sobbing against him, knowing that I won’t ever see him again. This is the last time I’ll be able to see his face, touch him. The fact is too much to bear as I continue to cry.

My parents walk into the room, following suit. They fall at his side, sobbing, apologizing, pleading for forgiveness.

“Please come back,” I beg, keeping my forehead on his arm. “I’ll do better, I swear. I’ll be better. Remember when we fought over that stupid hockey card when we were seven? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every time I was a shitty brother, every time I got us in trouble, every time—”

Tears blur my vision as I cling onto him.

I can’t believe Archer’s gone. Has been gone since the moment that puck cracked his skull open on the ice.

And I’m alone in a way I’ve never been before, holding the cold hand of the only person who ever understood the darkness that lives inside me.

The only person who shared it.

Now he’s gone

One Week Later

The black suit feels like a straitjacket.

I stand beside Archer’s casket, my hand pressed flat against the polished wood, sunglasses hiding the evidence of what I’ve become in the past week.

My pupils are blown wide from the oxy I stole from Mom’s purse this morning—the same pills she’s been popping like candy since we got home from the hospital.

The funeral home reeks of lilies and bullshit sympathy. People keep approaching the casket, whispering their hollow condolences, but I don’t move. Haven’t moved for the past hour. This is as close as I can get to Archer now, and I’m not giving up this spot for anyone.

The puck hitting his skull plays on repeat behind my eyelids. The crack. The blood. The way his body went limp. Over and over until the oxy kicks in enough to blur the edges, make it hurt a little less.

Dad hasn’t been home since the hospital. Mom floats through the house like a ghost, high out of her mind on whatever cocktail of grief and prescription drugs she can get her hands on. The house feels like a tomb—empty, cold, nothing but echoes where laughter used to be.

“Slater.” Mom’s voice cuts through my haze. “Take off your glasses.”

I don’t respond. Can’t respond. The sunglasses are the only thing keeping me together right now.

Her fingers grasp the frames and pull them off before I can stop her. I blink in the harsh fluorescent light, knowing she can see everything now. The red-rimmed eyes, the dilated pupils, the complete absence of anything resembling her firstborn son.

“Are you high?” Her voice cracks on the words.

I turn my face away, snatching the glasses back. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

“Slater, I just lost one son.” Tears stream down her cheeks. “I will not lose you too.”

“Too fucking late.” The words taste like poison. I slide the sunglasses back on and turn my attention back to the casket. Back to Archer.

She gawks at me but doesn’t argue.

The service is a joke. Half the school showed up—kids who barely knew Archer’s name are sobbing into tissues like they lost their best friend.

Girls I’ve never seen before wail by his casket, probably just happy to have drama to post about online.

My so-called friends stand in a cluster by the door, shooting me nervous glances but never approaching.

I’m the sad kid now. The one whose brother died. Untouchable in all the wrong ways.

After they lower Archer into the ground, after the last fake tear is shed and the last empty condolence is offered, everyone goes back to their normal lives. But there is no normal anymore. There’s just before Archer died and after, and I’m stuck in the after, drowning in it.

Mom stays high. I steal her pills and stay higher. The house becomes a monument to avoidance—two broken people orbiting around the space where our family used to be, never speaking, never acknowledging what we’ve both become. My dad never comes back home.

Months blur together in a haze of stolen oxy and hockey practice. I go through the motions because I have to, because staying busy keeps the replay from starting up again. But mostly because I made Archer a promise in that hospital room, whispered it against his cold hand when no one was listening.

I’d live out our dream. Both our dreams.

The college recruitment letters start coming in. Scouts who’d been watching Archer suddenly turn their attention to me—the surviving brother, the one carrying the dead kid’s legacy. I apply to every school that offers a scholarship, but there’s only one that matters.

Hawthorne University. Archer’s favorite team since we were kids, said someday we’d both play there together.

When the acceptance letter arrives, I stare at it for an hour before opening it. Full ride. Division I hockey. Everything Archer wanted, handed to me because he’s not here to take it himself.

I should feel something—pride, excitement, relief. Instead, there’s just the familiar hollow ache where my chest used to be, and the knowledge that I’ll need to score more pills before I can even think about packing for college.

The letter sits on my desk for weeks. Every time I look at it, I hear Archer’s laugh, see his cocky grin when he talked about playing for Hawthorne. But I also see his lifeless body on that hospital bed, feel his cold fingers in mine.

How the fuck am I supposed to live his dream when I can barely figure out how to live my own life? How do I step onto that ice every day knowing he should be there beside me?

The oxy helps, but it’s not enough. Nothing’s enough.

I fold the letter and stick it in my pocket. One step at a time, one pill at a time, one day at a time. It’s the only way I know how to move forward—numb and broken, carrying my dead brother’s dreams on my back like a cross I’ll never be strong enough to bear