Lena has never been to a funeral. She’s embarrassed by how unprepared she feels for the event, how many questions she wants to ask before they arrive. Will it be an open casket, even though the death was violent? Are there seating arrangements based on relation? Is she expected to cry? What if she can’t? She finds herself wondering if Sebastian ever wishes he were with someone who had more life experience, who understands the delicate combination of comfort and distance a person needs when they’re stepping into the fragile space of grief. In the beginning of their relationship, she would often wonder if Sebastian would be better off with someone who knew the fabric of the world with a seasoned intricacy—who had been divorced or traveled on her own or loved some niche artist enough to collect all their work. She imagined this woman, whom she’d built entirely as the antonym to her and her many personal shortcomings, until she seemed real enough to be waiting just around the corner while she and Sebastian took their morning walks. But each time she mustered the courage to ask him for reassurance or press him on the things he wished were different about her, he would wave her off. You’re perfect, he’d say. You’re exactly what I’ve always wanted.