Stone Cold, The Day I Felt Nothing
What grief looks like from a distance
Personal Entry (01/03/2026)
(Not for publication.)
Marcus Macaroni is dead.
The words didn’t register at first.
Gone.
No dramatic buildup. No warning. Just absence.
How? Why?
The answers didn’t matter. None of it would bring him back.
The station felt different this morning. Quieter, but not physically. The radios still crackled. The phones still rang. Officers still moved.
But there was something heavier in the air , like oxygen had thinned.
Nana blamed the LSPD.
“Incompetent.”
Her voice shook when she said it. Not loud. Just tight.
Anger is always easier to hold than grief.
She stormed out before anyone could respond.
And I stood there thinking…
Why don’t I feel anything?
I searched for it. The tug in the chest. The tightening throat. The sting behind the eyes.
Nothing.
I feel… curious.
Detached.
As if I’m observing a social experiment.
Chief Serpico was supposed to perform at the talent show today. The entire city gathered at the dome, hosted by To Night, of all people.
Music. Laughter. Applause.
A distraction.
He withdrew at the last minute.
I followed him on patrol instead.
North.
Up the winding mountain roads where the city lights disappear and conversations can’t hide behind noise.
I asked him questions.
Too many.
Then he spoke in pieces.
About responsibility.
About burying officers.
About choosing this job every day even when it hurts.
I watched his hands on the steering wheel. Steady. Controlled.
I respect him.
He always places others first. He withdraws quietly so others can shine.
So I told him… carefully, that maybe he should allow someone to choose him for once.
I didn’t say it plainly.
But I chose to sit in that patrol car instead of attending a citywide event.
I chose him.
That counts.
The radio interrupted us.
Nana was missing.
Completely off-grid.
The shift changed instantly. Calm turned sharp. Units scattered.
Time stretched.
It took too long to find her.
Hilby found her first. Then Adler.
When she returned, she looked like someone who had stared into something dark and come back carrying it.
For someone so cold on the surface, Nana burns like a dying star.
Her grief is loud even when she says nothing.
And I stood beside it, untouched.
That is what unsettles me.
I do not understand loss.
I do not understand the kind of attachment that makes existence feel unbearable without someone else in it.
My family never allowed attachment to grow that way.
Every relationship was structured. Negotiated. Useful.
Affection was earned. Approval was conditional.
If you are valuable, you remain visible.
If you are not, you disappear.
And invisibility is failure.
Being a Van Voughn means remaining indispensable.
So what happens when someone becomes indispensable to you?
The Chief tried to steer the conversation toward me.
I deflected.
This is not about me.
Nana almost gave up on existence because someone mattered that much.
That frightens me.
Not death.
Dependency.
The idea that loving someone creates a vulnerability so deep it can hollow you out.
Is that what grief is?
A tax on love?
Because if so…
Then love is a liability.
And I do not tolerate liabilities.
But there was a moment today.
A brief one.
When I imagined what it would feel like to lose someone who truly matters to me.
The image came uninvited.
And for half a second there was something.
A flicker.
A tightness I quickly suppressed.
I will never let anyone ruin me.
I will never give someone that much access.
I will never allow grief to dismantle me.
But today proved something uncomfortable:
You cannot study grief forever from the outside.
Eventually, it knocks.
And I am not certain I will recognize it when it does.
The memorial was held just before sunset.
Chief Serpico stood at the front. No stage. No grand speeches. Just the department gathered in quiet formation.
The air felt still in a way that made even the city seem respectful.
They spoke about Marcus.
They spoke about patience. The way he showed up early and left late.
They said he made them better.
I had things to say too. But I stood at the back.
Far enough to not be noticed immediately. Close enough to hear every word.
I watched faces instead of listening to speeches.
Nana’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack.
Adler quieter than usual.
Serpico’s voice did not waver.
He carries grief the way he carries everything else, upright.
When he finished speaking, he let silence sit.
Then he looked at me.
Not forcefully.
Just a subtle gesture of his hand.
Come closer.
“You’re part of this family now,” he said softly.
Family.
The word hit strangely.
I stepped forward out of obligation more than conviction.
I don’t feel like part of anything yet. I don’t feel like I deserve to speak.
What right do I have to mourn him publicly when I don’t feel the sharpness the others do?
The only thing I feel is guilt.
Marcus Macaroni is the reason I am here.
He was the one who made sure I was safe after the situation at the cat café. He didn’t have to. He could have treated me like an inconvenience. Instead, he stood between chaos and me.
It was simple.
But it mattered.
And I never thanked him properly.
Now I never will.
The others spoke. Shared stories. Laughed softly at memories through tears.
I remained silent.
Not because I didn’t have words.
Because speaking them felt dishonest.
When the service ended and people began to disperse in small groups, I stayed back.
The sun dipped lower. Shadows stretched long across the pavement.
Eventually, the lot emptied.
Only the wind and the faint hum of the city remained.
I walked forward.
Stopped where he had stood.
I didn’t kneel. Didn’t dramatize it.
I simply stood there.
The words felt small without an audience.
The silence afterward was heavier than the ceremony itself.
I searched again for that tightness in my chest.
It still wasn’t there.
Just the awareness that something should be.
Maybe grief isn’t always loud.
Maybe sometimes it’s just unfinished sentences.
Or the weight of words you never got to say.
As I turned to leave, a thought lingered in the back of my mind ….
