Max

Two weeks passed. The apartment still smelled of medicine and the mints my grandmother hid in her apron pockets. She was my world. While others waited for my parents, I returned to her—the only person I could trust. Now, in my chest, there was only a scorched desert.
Max was sitting across from me in the park. We'd been friends since kindergarten, and he knew "Grandma" meant everything to me. But lately, something had broken between us. He was irritated by my isolation, and I was irritated by his attempts to "get me out of my shell."
"Listen, stop moping," he said, scrolling through his feed. "Life goes on. Let's go to the party tomorrow."

• Not now, Max. It hasn't been forty days yet.
  "You're just using this as an excuse!" he exploded. "You can't turn this into a cult!"
  — Reason? The only person I loved died. Do you even understand how I feel?
  We started yelling, letting out everything we'd pent up. And when we ran out of arguments, he spat out a phrase that stopped time:
  — You know what? At least I have parents, a normal family, not a grandmother!
  The world fell silent. The hum of the cars and the whistle of the wind vanished. Only that phrase remained, hanging in the air like a poisonous gas. Fear flashed in Max's eyes; he wanted to apologize, but the sound wouldn't come. And I suddenly realized I wasn't angry anymore. Rage had given way to icy indifference.
• Go home, Max. To your normal family.
  I left, feeling my childhood crumbling behind me. In my pocket, I felt Grandma's last piece of candy.