The Funeral

Look, I'm not proud of what I did.

Tracking down your host is the kind of thing that gets you socially exiled. It's the one rule everyone agrees on. You keep the secrets you stole. You move on. You let the memories fade like they're supposed to.

But I couldn't.

Part One

I passengered on a Tuesday in March.

One second I was making dinner. The next I was sitting in a church pew wearing a suit that wasn't mine.

The disorientation hit like it always does. Wrong body. Wrong hands (male, bigger than mine). Wrong everything.

A funeral. Great. Twelve hours of someone else's grief.

The service hadn't started yet. People were still filing in. Quiet conversations. That weird funeral energy where everyone's trying to be respectful but also normal.

The man I was in kept his eyes on the closed casket at the front.

His grief was like a physical weight. Heavy. Old. Not fresh grief. The kind that's been sitting in your chest for weeks, getting denser.

Someone sat down next to him. Put a hand on his shoulder. He nodded but didn't look at them. Couldn't. If he made eye contact he'd break. I could feel him holding it together by sheer force of will.

The service started. I won't bore you with the details. Hymns. A eulogy. People crying.

But the man I was in didn't cry. He just sat there, locked down, barely breathing.

At one point they invited people to share memories. A few people went up. Talked about how kind she was. How she loved gardening. How she made everyone feel welcome.

The man I was in wanted to go up there. I felt him start to stand twice. But he couldn't make himself do it. What was he supposed to say? How do you sum up what someone meant to you when you're not supposed to mean anything to them anymore?

He stayed seated.

After the service, there was a reception. The man moved through it like a ghost. Shook hands. Accepted condolences meant for family members. But he wasn't family. He was something else. Something without a name.

Someone asked him how he knew her.

"Old friend," he said.

The person nodded and moved on.

But it wasn't true. I could feel that much. She wasn't just an old friend.

Around hour eight, he left. Didn't say goodbye to anyone. Just walked out to his car and sat there in the parking lot for twenty minutes.

Then he drove home to an apartment that was too quiet and too empty.

He poured a drink. Sat on the couch. Stared at nothing.

On the coffee table, there was a photo album. He'd been looking through it recently. I could tell because it was open to a page from maybe twenty years ago. A younger version of him with a woman.

Her face was blurred. The face blur effect. This was the woman from the funeral.

She was smiling in the photo. So was he. They were at some kind of outdoor festival. Happy.

He closed the album. Put it back on the shelf.

Then he sat down and cried. Finally. Now that he was alone. Now that no one could see.

I've never felt grief like that. It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. It was just this quiet, endless ache.

He cried for maybe ten minutes. Then he stopped. Wiped his face. Got up and made himself dinner like nothing had happened.

The rest of the twelve hours were unremarkable. He ate. He watched TV without really watching it. He went to bed early.

When I snapped back to my own body, I was standing in my kitchen. My dinner was burning on the stove. I'd left it on when I passengered out.

I turned off the burner and threw out the ruined food.

Then I sat down at my table and tried to process what I'd just experienced.

That level of grief for "an old friend"?

That wasn't friendship.

Part Two

The memories should have faded.

That's how it works. Give it a few weeks and passenger experiences blur. Give it a few months and they're mostly gone.

But I kept thinking about him. About that quiet, private grief.

About how he'd sat through that funeral holding everything inside because he didn't have the right to grieve publicly.

I started writing things down. Everything I could remember before it faded. The church. The reception. His apartment. The photo album.

His name. I'd heard it at the funeral. Multiple times. I wrote it down before I could forget.

Michael Torres.

And then I did something stupid.

I looked him up.

Found him in about thirty seconds. Facebook profile. LinkedIn. He was a civil engineer. Lived in the same city as me. Unmarried. No kids.

His profile was sparse. A few photos of hiking trips. Some work stuff. Nothing personal.

I told myself I just wanted to make sure he was okay.

(He wasn't okay. You don't grieve like that and then just bounce back.)

But what was I going to do? Message him? "Hi, I passengered into you during a funeral and I'm worried about you"?

That's not how this works.

So I just checked his profile occasionally. Once a month. Then once a week. Then more often than I want to admit.

It became a habit. A bad one.

I watched him slowly come back to life through social media. Saw him post about work projects. Saw him go on a trip to Colorado. Saw him smile in photos again.

It took about a year.

I should have stopped checking then. He was okay. That should have been enough.

But I didn't stop.

Part Three

Two years after the funeral, I was at a coffee shop when I saw him.

Michael Torres. In person. In line ahead of me.

The recognition hit like a punch. I knew his hands. His height. The way he stood. Even though I'd never actually seen him before.

My heart was pounding. This was it. This was the moment where I could talk to him. Ask him if he was okay. Tell him he wasn't alone that day.

He ordered his coffee and turned around.

We made eye contact for half a second.

He had no idea who I was.

Of course he didn't. He'd never seen me. He didn't know I'd been there.

I let him walk past me. Didn't say anything.

But I followed him out.

(I know. I know. I'm getting to the bad part.)

He sat at an outdoor table. I sat a few tables away. Close enough to watch. Far enough to not be obvious.

He was reading something on his phone. Responding to emails, maybe. Normal Tuesday afternoon stuff.

I sat there for forty-five minutes trying to decide what to do.

Finally, I walked over.

"Excuse me," I said. "I'm sorry to bother you, but are you Michael Torres?"

He looked up. Confused. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry if this is weird, but I think I was at the same funeral you were. About two years ago? March?"

His face changed. Went very still. "What funeral?"

"I don't know her name." (I did. I'd looked it up. Karen Brennan. But I couldn't admit that.) "I just remember seeing you there. And I've been thinking about it. About how hard it seemed. I just wanted to check if you were okay."

He stared at me. Really looked at me. Trying to place me.

"I don't remember you," he said carefully.

"I know. I was just another person there. But it stuck with me. The way you were hurting. I'm sorry. This is stupid. I shouldn't have bothered you."

I started to walk away.

"Wait," he said.

I turned back.

He was looking at me like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

"You passengered into me," he said quietly.

I froze.

"That's the only way you'd remember that day but I wouldn't remember you. You were there, but you weren't there."

Shit.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have tracked you down. I just needed to know if you were okay."

"That's not how this works," he said. But his voice wasn't angry. Just tired.

"I know."

"You're supposed to keep it to yourself."

"I know."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he gestured to the chair across from him.

"Sit down."

I sat.

"Are you going to blackmail me?" he asked.

"What? No. Jesus. No."

"Then why track me down?"

"Because I felt your grief and it was the saddest thing I've ever experienced and I needed to know if you were okay."

He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound.

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm alive. I get up every day. That's about all I can promise."

"She meant a lot to you."

"Yeah."

We sat there in silence for a minute.

Then he asked, "Do you remember her name?"

"Karen," I said quietly. "Karen Brennan."

He nodded. Didn't seem surprised I'd looked it up.

"How did you know her?" I asked.

"That's a long story."

"I've got time."

He studied me. Trying to decide if I was worth trusting.

Finally, he said, "She was my first love. High school sweethearts. We were going to get married. Had the whole future planned out."

"What happened?"

"Life. We were young. She wanted to travel. I wanted to stay here. We couldn't figure out how to do both. So we broke up. Promised we'd stay friends."

He paused.

"We didn't. You know how it is. You say you'll stay close but then life happens. She moved away. I stayed here. We lost touch."

"When did she come back?"

"She didn't. She died in Seattle. I only found out because her sister remembered me and sent me a message. By the time I got there for the funeral, she'd been gone for two weeks."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too."

Another long silence.

"Did she know you still loved her?" I asked.

He looked surprised. "I didn't say I still loved her."

"You didn't have to. I was there, remember? I felt it."

He looked away.

"No," he said finally. "She didn't know. We hadn't talked in fifteen years. She got married. Had a life. She was happy."

"Were you happy?"

"I had a life. That's different."

I wanted to tell him that grief like that doesn't come from nothing. That the way he'd held himself together at that funeral was the saddest thing I'd ever witnessed. That he deserved to know his grief was valid even if he'd lost the right to show it.

But I didn't say any of that.

Instead, I asked, "Do you have anyone to talk to about this?"

"I have a therapist."

"Good."

We sat there a while longer. Neither of us seemed to know how to end this.

Finally, he said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"That day. When you were in my head. What did you feel?"

I thought about how to answer that.

"I felt like you were drowning and no one could see it. I felt like you were holding your breath underwater and everyone at the surface thought you were fine."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. That's about right."

"Are you still drowning?"

"Less," he said. "Some days I can breathe."

"That's something."

"Yeah."

He stood up. Gathered his stuff.

"I should go."

"Okay."

He paused. Looked at me.

"Thanks for checking," he said. "I know you're not supposed to. But thanks."

"You're welcome."

He walked away.

I sat there for another hour, drinking cold coffee, feeling like I'd done something both right and wrong at the same time.

Part Four

I didn't try to contact him again.

That's what I told myself. One conversation. That's all I needed. Closure. Confirmation he was okay.

But I kept checking his social media. Once a month. Just to make sure.

Over the next year, I watched him get better. Saw him post about a promotion at work. Saw him adopt a dog. Saw him smile more in photos.

Then, about eighteen months after our coffee shop conversation, I saw a post that made something in my chest tighten.

Michael had shared a memory. A photo from years ago. Him and Karen. Young. Happy.

The caption said: "15 years ago today. Still miss you."

The post had dozens of comments. Supportive messages from friends. Heart emojis.

But one comment stood out.

From a woman named Jennifer Brennan.

"She missed you too. I found her journals when we were packing up her apartment. She wrote about you right up until the end. She never stopped loving you either. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I thought it would make it harder."

I read that comment probably fifty times.

Karen had loved him too.

For fifteen years, they'd both carried the same grief. The same what-if. The same quiet ache.

And neither of them had known.

Part Five

Six months ago, everything in my life went to shit.

My wife left me. After eight years of marriage, she sat me down and said we'd "grown apart." That she needed to find herself. That she still cared about me but wasn't in love with me anymore.

All the cliches. Every single one.

The divorce was quick. Amicable, as these things go. We split everything down the middle. No kids to complicate things. Just two people who'd failed at being married.

I was a mess.

And that's when Michael reached out.

Not because he knew about the divorce. He didn't. He'd seen a post I'd made about work stress and just texted to check in.

"Hey, you doing okay?"

Simple. Direct.

I almost didn't respond. But something about it got me.

"Not really," I wrote back. "Going through a divorce."

"That sucks. You want to talk about it?"

We met for coffee. Same place as before.

I told him about Sarah. About how she'd left. About how I felt like I was failing at everything.

He listened. Really listened.

Then he said, "You know what I realized after you found me that day?"

"What?"

"For two years, I thought I was alone with that grief. I thought no one understood. No one saw. But you did. Even though you weren't supposed to. Even though it broke all the rules. You saw me. And you checked on me."

"I shouldn't have."

"Maybe. But it mattered. It meant something to know that someone cared enough to break the rules."

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I know. And that day, when you asked me that, I wasn't okay. But knowing someone gave a shit? That helped. More than I admitted at the time."

I didn't know what to say.

"My point is," he continued, "you're going through shit right now. And I'm guessing you feel pretty alone. So I'm going to do for you what you did for me. I'm going to tell you that I see you. And I'm going to check on you. Because someone should."

He pulled out his phone. "What's your number?"

I gave it to him.

Over the next few months, he texted me regularly. Just checking in. Making sure I was okay. Nothing intense. Just the kind of casual friendship that reminds you someone gives a shit.

It helped.

More than I expected.

And then, about four months after we reconnected, he seemed different. Lighter. Actually happy.

"So I've been seeing someone," he said one day over lunch. "It's still pretty new, but it feels good. Real, you know?"

"That's great, man."

"After Karen, I didn't think I'd feel this way again. But this is different. This person gets me. And I think I might actually be happy."

"You deserve that."

"Thanks. Actually, I'm having a few people over Saturday. Just a casual thing. You should come. Meet her."

Something in my gut twisted. Some instinct I couldn't name.

"Yeah," I said. "Sure. Send me the address."

The Twist

I showed up Saturday with a bottle of wine and no expectations.

Michael answered the door with that same happy energy. Led me inside. His apartment was filled with people I didn't know. Music playing. Normal party stuff.

"Let me introduce you to Sarah," he said.

And my stomach dropped.

Because I knew that name.

He led me to the kitchen.

And there she was.

My ex-wife.

Sarah. My Sarah. The woman I'd been married to for eight years. The woman who'd left me six months ago because we'd "grown apart."

She saw me at the same time.

Her face went white.

"Sarah, this is the friend I told you about," Michael said. "The one who checked on me after Karen's funeral."

I watched her process it. Watched her realize what I'd done. That I'd passengered into her new boyfriend. That I'd broken every rule to track him down.

"We've met," I said quietly.

Michael looked between us. Confused.

"We were married," Sarah said. Her voice was steady but her hands were shaking. "This is my ex-husband."

The room got very quiet.

Michael stared at me. Then at her. Then back at me.

"You didn't tell me his name," he said to Sarah.

"You didn't tell me yours," she said to me.

We'd both been so careful. So private about the divorce. Neither of us wanted to talk about it with our new friend. So we just hadn't.

"I need some air," Michael said.

He walked outside.

Sarah looked at me. "You passengered into him?"

"Yeah."

"And you tracked him down?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus Christ."

We stood there in the kitchen while the party continued around us.

"Does he know?" she asked. "That I'm your ex?"

"He does now."

"I meant before. Did you befriend him knowing we were together?"

"No. I had no idea. I befriended him because he was drowning and no one could see it. Because I felt his grief and it destroyed me. Because I couldn't just let it go."

She looked away. "You always did that. Tried to save people who didn't ask for it."

"Yeah. Worked out great."

"I'm not apologizing for moving on."

"I'm not asking you to."

"He's a good person."

"I know. I was there for his worst day. Remember?"

She flinched.

"I should go," I said.

"Wait."

I stopped.

"Did you do this on purpose?" she asked. "Some kind of revenge? Some way to mess with my life?"

And that's when I realized what she was really asking.

Did I track down Michael knowing somehow he'd end up with her? Was this all some elaborate manipulation?

"No," I said. "I had no fucking idea. This is just the universe's idea of a joke."

She studied my face. Deciding whether to believe me.

"He's going to think you did this on purpose," she said. "He's going to think this whole friendship was about getting to me."

"I know."

"You need to tell him it wasn't."

"He won't believe me."

"Try anyway. He deserves that."

She was right.

I went outside. Found Michael sitting on his car in the parking lot.

"Hey," I said.

He didn't look at me.

"I didn't know," I said. "I didn't know Sarah was your girlfriend. I didn't even know you were seeing anyone until you told me a few months ago. And I definitely didn't engineer some elaborate scheme to fuck with your life."

"How am I supposed to believe that?"

"You can't. That's the problem. From your perspective, this looks exactly like manipulation. Like I passengered into you, tracked you down, befriended you, all so I could... what? Spy on my ex-wife? Ruin her new relationship? I don't even know what my supposed motivation would be."

He finally looked at me. "So it's just coincidence?"

"Yeah. Horrible, fucked up coincidence."

"That's a hell of a coincidence."

"I know."

We sat in silence for a minute.

"I felt your grief," I said quietly. "At that funeral. It was the saddest thing I'd ever experienced. You were holding yourself together through sheer willpower and no one could see it. And I couldn't stop thinking about it. About you. About whether you were okay."

"So you tracked me down."

"So I broke every rule and tracked you down. And when we met, you told me that someone should care. That it mattered that I checked on you. And then you did the same for me when my life fell apart."

"Your life fell apart because Sarah left you."

"Yeah."

"And now she's with me."

"Yeah."

"And you're okay with that?"

I thought about it. Really thought about it.

"I don't know," I said honestly. "Part of me wants to be angry. Wants to feel betrayed. But I can't. Because I know you. I know you're not a bad guy. I know you're someone who texts his friends to make sure they're okay. I know you were destroyed by losing Karen and you're finally happy again."

"But?"

"But it's really fucking weird that the person who made you happy is my ex-wife."

He almost smiled. Almost.

"What do we do now?" he asked.

"I don't know. I've never passengered into my ex-wife's new boyfriend before. There's no handbook for this."

"Do you want me to break up with her?"

"No. Jesus. No."

"Because I will. If this is too fucked up. If you can't handle it."

And that's when I realized he meant it. He'd actually do it. He'd give up his happiness because he felt like he owed me something.

Because I'd been there for his worst day.

"Don't," I said. "Don't break up with her because of me."

"Then what?"

"I don't know. Maybe we just see what happens. Maybe this is workable. Or maybe it's too weird and we can't be friends anymore. But don't blow up your life because the universe decided to make everything complicated."

He nodded slowly.

"For what it's worth," he said. "I didn't know. About you two. She just said she'd been divorced recently. Never gave me details."

"I know."

"And I really do care about her."

"I know that too."

He looked at me. Really looked at me.

"Are you going to be okay?"

And there it was. The same question I'd asked him two years ago. The question that started all of this.

"Eventually," I said. "Are you?"

"Eventually."

We sat there a while longer. Not saying much. Just existing in the weirdness of it all.

Finally, he said, "I should get back inside."

"Yeah."

He stood up. Started walking toward the door. Then stopped.

"Thanks," he said. "For telling me the truth."

"Thanks for believing me."

"I'm not sure I do yet."

"That's fair."

He went inside.

I got in my car and drove home.

The End

I haven't talked to Michael since that night.

Sarah texted me once. Asked if I was okay. I said yeah.

That was three weeks ago.

I don't know if they're still together. I stopped checking his social media. Stopped torturing myself with it.

Maybe they'll make it. Maybe they won't.

Maybe the universe will passenger me into him again someday and I'll get to see how it all turned out.

Or maybe I'll never know.

That's the thing about breaking the passenger rules.

You think you're helping.

You think you're doing the right thing.

But sometimes you end up in a situation where there is no right thing. Where every option is complicated and messy and painful.

I don't regret tracking him down. Even now.

Because that day at the funeral, he needed someone. And I was there.

And later, when I needed someone, he was there for me.

That mattered.

Even if it means I lost him as a friend. Even if it means watching my ex-wife be happy with someone I genuinely like. Even if it's weird and awkward and there's no clean way to move forward.

It still mattered.

Someone cared.

And that's something.

Even when it hurts.