The Weight of Blue

The lake never changed, not really. It was the one place that still looked the same in a world that had moved on. Trees swayed gently at its edge, brushing the water with fingers of shadow. The wind hummed a tune that only the broken-hearted recognized, and the clouds overhead drifted like unspoken thoughts. This was where Jonah came every year, on the same date, with the same weight in his chest that no amount of time could loosen.

He sat on the weather-worn bench beneath the old pine tree, its bark etched with the initials he and Maren had carved ten years ago. J + M. That was before the accident, before the silence, before the world lost its color and turned into varying shades of blue.

They had been in their twenties, full of impossible dreams and improbable plans. Maren had laughed like the sky was made for her voice. It wasn't loud or showy, but soft and sudden, like wind chimes in a quiet breeze. Jonah remembered how she’d dance barefoot on the lakeshore, the hem of her dress soaked with dew, as if she belonged more to this world of water and wind than to solid ground.

He looked across the lake, eyes tracing the rippleless surface. It was eerily still, like it was holding its breath with him.

The doctors had called it a “freak event”—a seizure behind the wheel that no one could have predicted. Jonah didn’t care for the term. Nothing about losing the person you loved most could be called “freak.” It was devastating. It was shattering. It was a wound stitched poorly with time, prone to bleeding when the light hit it wrong.

After she was gone, the world dimmed. Music became noise. Food lost its taste. The days dragged their feet and the nights ran too fast, filled with dreams that tore him awake. Everyone said grief faded, but they never mentioned how it twisted itself into your very bones, becoming a part of you.

That’s when he started coming here—this lake, this bench, this quiet.

One year, he brought a journal. Not to write to her—he didn’t believe in that—but to try and write through her. Every page was an attempt to remember her without falling apart. He described her laugh, her scent (lavender and river air), her paintings—bright swirls of color that had always clashed with his gray wardrobe and careful manner.

Jonah wasn’t a man of emotion. He was an engineer. He solved problems. But grief was not a problem. It was a presence, something that sat beside you in silence and refused to leave, no matter how much logic you threw at it.

This year felt different.

Maybe it was the way the clouds hung low, heavy with unshed rain, or the way the sky melted into the lake without a visible horizon. Maybe it was how he caught himself humming a tune she used to love without realizing it. Or maybe it was the envelope in his coat pocket—a letter he’d written the night before, finally ready to let go of the words he hadn’t said.

He unfolded the paper slowly. His hands trembled—not from age, but from the ache.

Dear Maren,

I’ve tried to live without you, but it’s never really been without you. You’re in everything—the coffee I still make with too much sugar, the plants I forget to water but talk to anyway, the songs that come on when I least expect them.

I hated the sky for a long time. It was too open, too endless. It reminded me of how much I’d lost. But today… today it looks like you. Soft, wide, and full of something I can’t name but recognize.

I’m tired of carrying this weight like it’s the only way to honor you. I think maybe you’d want me to set it down. To laugh again. To love again.

I’m not saying goodbye. I’m saying thank you.

I miss you. I always will. But I think I’m ready to come back to the world.

Love,

Jonah

He folded the letter again and stood. The water looked inviting—not for escape, but for release. He stepped to the edge and gently placed the letter on the surface. It floated for a moment, then slowly sank, ink bleeding like tears into the blue.

Jonah watched until it disappeared, swallowed by the lake’s mirrored skin. When he looked up, the clouds had parted slightly, and a soft beam of sunlight touched the surface, warming it just enough to blur the sky’s reflection.

For the first time in years, he smiled. Not a big smile, but enough to crease the corners of his eyes.

As he turned to leave, he glanced back once more. The lake remained—vast, quiet, still. But something inside him had shifted. The weight of blue was still there, but it no longer pressed him down. Instead, it floated beside him like a memory—light enough to carry.