You don't cry at the funeral. You want to, but you're keenly aware that all eyes are on you, and it would be selfish to cry. And you know he would tell you to have courage.

You think about the last few months and all the missed opportunities. He tried to visit you one spring day, when you had study hall and he had the day off from school, but you had to "help Mercedes with her Spanish homework, I'm afraid she might flunk if I don't." He asked to meet you after school, but you were busy with Glee club, "Nationals are just three weeks away, and we're still arguing about the choreography." He invited you over for dinner, but you asked for "a raincheck, I'm positively swamped trying to catch up on all the material I missed while I was away."

You barely saw him for the rest of the school year. He was patient. Summer finally came, bringing with it high hopes for him that you would finally be free to spend time together. But you were so desperate to "make up for lost time" with your McKinley friends, you had passed more often than not without batting an eye because, really, as far as you knew, you had forever.

It was so easy to leave Dalton at the time. You missed McKinley. You missed the teachers, the New Directions, the familiar bell between classes, the awful cafeteria food, the way the overhead lights in the hallway dimmed at five o'clock so the school wouldn't go over budget on the electricity. You missed the way the classes were easier, the way the water fountains had colder water, the way the locker room smelled like boys, the way you could wear something different every day.

But above all else, you had tunnel vision for Nationals. Leaving Dalton didn't feel like betrayal so much as it felt like abandoning a sinking ship. You were entirely justified in your decision. You wanted so badly to compete in New York that you were willing to go back to a place that, frankly, kept trying to purge you from its system like a bad virus. But you ignored all that. It was easy to buy Karofsky's Anti-Bullying movement, to overlook everything he'd done and threatened to do, if it meant you had a shot at Nationals. You didn't think about what you were leaving behind to do so.

Two days ago, in your one moment of weakness, you broke down in front of Mercedes. You can't remember now half the things you said, or if any of it came out coherently, but you vaguely remember saying things like selfish and asinine and worthless and took for granted. Mercedes held you and told you it wasn't your fault, that there was no way you could have seen this coming, that he understood why you left, and he was gracious, understanding, painstakingly compliant, even, to a fault. You weren't sure if that was supposed to make you feel better. It didn't.

Someone claps you on the shoulder. People are whispering things to you like, "How are you doing?" and "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you," but none of it sounds right. Every empty platitude is murky and distant, like your ears are full of water. You're loosely aware of your father's strong hand steering you into the mahogany pew toward the back of the room. He follows behind you and sits to your right. In your periphery, you notice Mrs. Anderson to your left.

You've only met her once before, a few months ago when you first started dating her son. She made a point to come to the door when you picked him up for a coffee date. You were still attending Dalton then. She smiled warmly and gave you a few extra dollars to treat yourself to "some Biscotti, I insist."

A man, whom you assume is her husband, sits to her left. You don't introduce yourself. No one does it for you.

The hollow buzzing around you smothers. Someone is standing at a podium at the front of the room and speaking—remembering, reminiscing, regretting. Your eyes affix to your black shoelaces, just beyond your hands tented over your knees. You remember buying these shoes a few months ago. They fit a little snugger now than when you first tried them on. You don't realize you've changed so much. A strained, mournful hum to your left spills out intermittently as the voices and the stories at the podium change. Then silence.

You don't consciously decide to start singing. It just billows out of you suddenly like a low, rumbling thunder. You know how moved he was by Blackbird, and maybe that's why you're singing In My Life now. This time, the boys don't back you up. You know they're all here—scattered throughout the pews, and objectively you think about how it would sound, the music of their voices swelling from every pocket of the room and swirling together seamlessly—but they let you have this one to yourself.

A surge of whispered prayers and haunted murmurings bubble up all around you when your song is done. You try to tune it out. He wouldn't have wanted prayers. He would have wanted more music.

It's easy to slip out the back of the chapel unnoticed while everyone has their heads bowed and their eyes closed. Someone—funeral home staff, by the looks of it—opens the door for you with a courteous nod. The sun is high and bright, and the humidity of the day hits you before you even cross the threshold. There's no breeze, evidenced by the stillness in the trees and the clamminess you feel under your clothes. It's bad weather for a three-piece suit and a broken heart.

You think about a promise you made almost three months ago—to never say goodbye. It's one promise you wish you could have broken.