﹐ ☓ ᴛɪᴛʟᴇ. ᴀ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜʀɪꜱᴛᴍᴀꜱ
﹐ ☓ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ. ꜱᴀᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ, ɢʀɪᴇꜰ
﹐ ☓ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ. ᴅᴇᴄᴇᴍʙᴇʀ 𝟤𝟣-𝟤𝟦
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Christmas had always been the same for the Noé family—warm, predictable, and full of traditions. But this year was different. The house in Vancouver would still smell like cinnamon and pine, the fireplace would still crackle, and his mom would still try her best to make everything feel normal. Yet nothing about this Christmas felt normal to Beckett.

It had been over a year since his father passed away—a sudden aneurysm that turned their world upside down one humid afternoon in August. Last Christmas, they were still stumbling through their grief, unsure how to celebrate when every tradition reminded them of the man who was no longer there. This year, though, the silence felt heavier, the reality harder to ignore.

For Beckett, it hit him hardest now as he sat on a long flight from South Korea to Canada, staring at the frost lining the plane window. It wasn't just the absence of his father—it was the strange, aching realization that this was his new normal. He bit his lip as tears prick at his eyes. Everything was normal. It wasn't fucking normal and he was panicking about it. It had been a year since his father's death and yet he was still losing his mind about everything.

He had watched them lower his dad into the ground. He had woken up the next morning to his dad being gone. It all felt rushed. It all felt like he didn't even have enough time with him. He didn't get to say goodbye yet here he was a year later going back home to a house where his father won't be. 

The thought of walking into that house without his father felt like the final blow, the undeniable truth. He didn't know how to deal with it. He wasn't even sure if his mom or sister had accepted it either. They didn't talk about it. They didn't speak of him anymore, and Beckett knew it wasn't because they had forgotten. They just couldn't bear to confront the emptiness. And maybe, just maybe, neither could he.

He sighed as he looked at his phone seeing the wallpaper of him and his dad when he was five years old. Once again, tears pricked his eyes. He didn't wanna cry, but he couldn't help but feel like he needed to. Did he properly grieve his dad? Did he uphold his memory like a good son was supposed to do. He didn't know and it was all too much for his mind. Maybe some part of him wanted to push it away and yet it all came back to him like a dam breaking. This is the first time he felt truly in touch with his emotions since it happened and he didn't like it. Not one bit.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breathing. Over the last three days, he'd cried more than he had in his entire 23 years of life. And that was saying something. Beckett wasn't the kind of person who broke easily. At least, that's what he liked to tell himself.

The plane shuddered as it began its descent, pulling him from his spiraling thoughts. He wiped his eyes hastily, embarrassed even though no one was looking. His mom and sister would be waiting for him at the airport, and he wasn't sure if he was ready to see them yet.

It wasn't that he didn't love them; he did. But he knew the second he saw their faces, it would all feel real again. His mom's quiet strength, his sister's forced smiles—they were grieving too, but in their own ways. He wasn't sure if he could be the support they needed when he felt like he was barely holding himself together.

The plane touched down with a jolt, and Beckett inhaled sharply, gripping the armrest. He closed his eyes, steadying himself. It's just Christmas. One week. You can survive one week.

But deep down, he knew this wasn't just about surviving. This was about confronting the gaping hole in their family and figuring out how to move forward without the person who had been at the center of it all.

As the plane taxied to the gate, Beckett opened his phone one last time, staring at that photo of his dad. For a moment, he let himself feel it—really feel it. The loss, the love, the anger, the sadness. He didn't know what he'd say to his mom or his sister. Hell, he didn't know what he'd say to himself.

But he'd start by walking through those doors and trying.

---

The first two days at home had been... manageable, if not strange. Beckett found himself tiptoeing through conversations with his mom and sister, unsure of what to say or how much to say. His mom busied herself with cooking and cleaning, a quiet determination etched into her face, while his sister flitted between moments of forced cheer and silence.

They all pretended not to notice the empty chair at the dining table, but Beckett couldn't stop himself from glancing at it every now and then. It was like a ghost lingering in the room, a reminder of the man who used to fill the house with his voice, his laugh, his presence.

The moments in between felt heavier—when the house was quiet and no one was trying to hold it together for each other. That's when Beckett felt it the most, the weight of his father's absence pressing on his chest.

The house is quiet, just like it had been in the past two days. No one wanted to talk or at least try to break the tension that seemed to linger in the air. His mom sat on the couch reading, but he could tell her thoughts were running rampant in her head from the way she gripped the spine of the book. Zoelle left the house to hang out with her friends. He couldn't blame her. He wanted to leave himself. Not being in this house, which seems to be closing in on him and making him feel suffocated.

He stood up from his spot at the window, his hand absentmindedly brushing through his hair. He needed some space, some time away from this place, to breathe, to escape the silent weight of the past year. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, silently making his way toward the door.

"Beckett," his mom's voice stopped him just as his hand reached the knob. He turned, meeting her tired eyes. "I'm just going for a walk," he said, trying to sound casual.

She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line, but didn't say anything more. She didn't need to. He could see the worry in her eyes, the unspoken understanding between them. They were all carrying the same weight, but no one dared to speak about it.

The air was cold as he stepped out of the house. White powder layered the floor of the concrete in the sidewalk as he walked. He didn't know where he was going. He just needed to get out of the house. Go clear his mind and think about something other than everything.

Beckett kept walking, his steps automatic, not really thinking about where he was going. His mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions that had no place to go, so he just walked, one foot in front of the other, letting his legs guide him through the quiet streets.

He didn't realize how far he had gone until the path started to change beneath his feet, the concrete replaced by the crunch of gravel. He looked up, blinking against the stark white of the snow-dusted cemetery before him. His heart skipped a beat.

He hadn't meant to come here. He didn't even know why he'd walked this way. But now that he was here, it felt like something he couldn't turn away from, something pulling him in.

He stood at the entrance for a moment, breath caught in his throat. The cemetery was eerily quiet, the only sound being the soft rustle of wind through the bare branches of trees. The place felt frozen in time, as if the world had paused here, holding its breath.

Without thinking, he started walking again, his legs carrying him deeper into the cemetery. His eyes scanned the rows of headstones, each one a marker of a life lived, but none of them mattered except the one he was looking for. His heart beat a little faster, and when he found it—his father's grave—he stopped, his throat tightening. And then he saw her. Zoelle.

She was standing there, just a few feet away, her back to him as she stared at the gravestone. Her shoulders were tense, her hands shoved into the pockets of her coat, and Beckett could see the way she was holding herself—like she was trying to hold it together, even though she was barely keeping it in. She hadn't been at home when he left. She'd lied about hanging out with her friends. Of course, Beckett hadn't expected anything less. They were both avoiding the grief in their own ways.

"Zoelle?" His voice cracked, but she didn't flinch. Instead, she turned slowly, her face blank, but her eyes—those eyes—were red. She'd been crying.

"Did you think you were the only one who needed to get out of there?" she asked quietly, her voice hollow, like she was trying to keep herself together too.

Beckett swallowed hard, stepping closer. He didn't know what to say. What could he say? There was nothing left to say. Not anymore. He pulled her into his arms holding her tightly. "I miss him too. God, I miss him so much, Z." He says as tears prick his eyes.

Zoelle didn't say anything at first, just letting her head fall against his chest. Her body trembled with silent sobs, and Beckett could feel the weight of her grief, pressing down on both of them. They stood there for a long time, neither of them saying a word, just holding onto each other like lifelines in a storm.

"I didn't know where else to go," Zoelle whispered after a while, her voice thick with emotion. "I couldn't stay there. It felt... suffocating."

Beckett nodded, his throat tight. "I know. I felt the same way."

The air between them hung heavy with the unsaid, the weight of everything they hadn't been able to talk about. The loss. The emptiness. Their father was gone, and they were still trying to figure out how to live in a world without him.

After a long silence, Beckett pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her face. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her makeup long since faded, but it didn't matter. She was still his sister, still the one person who could understand the hurt he was carrying.

"Do you think it gets easier?" he asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Zoelle shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "I don't think so. I think we just get better at pretending."

Beckett's heart clenched. He didn't want to pretend anymore. He didn't want to keep up the act, to hide how much he was hurting. But here they were, both of them standing in front of their father's grave, the reality of his absence as clear as the frost-covered ground beneath their feet.

"I wish we could just... go back," Zoelle murmured. "Before everything changed."

"Me too," Beckett replied, his voice breaking.

They stood in the cold, side by side, sharing the weight of their grief in silence. For a moment, there was no pressure to say the right thing, no need to be strong for anyone else. It was just them, their dad's grave, and the shared understanding that they were both struggling, each in their own way, to live in a world without him.

And as Beckett looked at the gravestone, the one that marked the place where his father now lay, he realized something he hadn't fully understood until now. The pain of losing him would never go away, but they could carry it together. They didn't have to pretend anymore. They didn't have to be alone in it.

With one last squeeze of Zoelle's hand, Beckett turned to leave, the two of them walking side by side out of the cemetery. The snow continued to fall, soft and quiet, like a blanket over everything, but there was a small sense of peace in knowing that, even in the hardest moments, they weren't alone.

—

The dining table was still and quiet, the clinking of silverware and the soft hum of Christmas music in the background the only sounds filling the space. The air felt heavy, though, as if the grief they'd all been carrying had taken a seat at the table, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

Beckett watched his mom push food around her plate, her gaze distant. Zoelle sat across from him, unusually quiet, her eyes fixed on her drink as if it held all the answers. He knew they couldn't keep this up—pretending, avoiding, walking on eggshells. Not tonight.

He set down his fork, the sound cutting through the room like a knife.

"This isn't how it's supposed to be," he said, his voice steady but firm.

His mom looked up, startled, her brow furrowing. "What do you mean?"

"This," Beckett gestured to the table, to the silence. "This isn't what Dad would've wanted for us. Sitting here, barely talking, pretending everything's fine when it's not."

Zoelle exhaled shakily, her hands gripping the edge of the table. "He's right," she murmured, her voice wavering. "I feel like we've all been holding our breath since last year, like we're afraid to say his name or talk about him. But I miss him so much, and... and I can't keep pretending I don't."

Their mom's expression softened, her lips pressing into a thin line. She placed her fork down carefully, her hands trembling slightly.

"I've tried," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've tried to keep us going, to keep everything together, but... I don't know how to do this without him." She paused, her breath hitching. "Your dad and I were always better together. He balanced me out. I could be the easygoing one because he was always there, steady and firm when it mattered. Now, it's just me, and I don't know how to do this on my own."

Tears welled in Zoelle's eyes, and she shook her head. "Mom, you don't have to do it on your own. You're not alone. You have us. We're still a family, even if it doesn't feel like it sometimes."

Beckett leaned forward, his voice thick with emotion. "Dad wouldn't want us to be like this—living in this constant weight of sadness. He'd want us to live. To laugh. To celebrate. He'd want us to talk about him, to remember him, not avoid it like it's some kind of taboo."

His mom's shoulders sagged, her walls crumbling as tears spilled down her cheeks. "I miss him so much," she said, her voice breaking. "I miss the way he'd make us laugh, the way he'd know exactly what to say to make everything okay. I've felt so lost without him."

Zoelle sniffled, wiping at her eyes. "I miss how he'd make the dumbest dad jokes and how he'd sing along to the radio, even when he didn't know the words. I hate that he's not here, and I hate that I feel like we've been drifting apart without him."

Beckett swallowed hard, his own tears threatening to spill. "I miss how he used to wake me up early on Christmas morning, even though I was way too old for it. I miss the way he'd talk about his plans for us, how he always believed in us, no matter what."

For the first time in what felt like forever, the three of them let it out. The words, the tears, the laughter. Memories poured out of them—funny stories, tender moments, regrets, and love.

The minutes stretched into hours as they shared their hearts with one another, their voices overlapping, their emotions spilling freely.

By the time they'd finished, the air in the room felt different—lighter, somehow. The weight they'd been carrying for the past year hadn't disappeared, but it felt less suffocating, less impossible to bear.

Their mom reached across the table, taking both Beckett and Zoelle's hands in hers. "Your dad wouldn't want us to live in sadness. He'd want us to live. To be happy. To love each other the way he loved us."

Beckett nodded, his throat tight. "We'll figure it out, Mom. Together." Zoelle smiled through her tears. "Yeah. Together."

For the first time that night and holiday, they all felt it—a glimmer of hope, a sense of connection, and the quiet reassurance that, despite everything, they were still a family. And that was enough.

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