Miles didn't know how to process grief. Sure, he's lost family members. Lost his grandpa and grandma, but he was too young to feel much grief for his grandma and they expected his grandpas death, so he didn't have much he needed to process when it came to grief. But his Uncle was different. He didn't expect it, it came so suddenly that it felt like his world was flipped. He didn't grieve. He felt like he just understood it, but never took the time to breakdown and accept it. It's not the type of thing where he hasn't accepted that Uncle Aaron isn't coming back, but he never properly grieved it.
He tried to avoid listening to music that reminded him of Uncle Aaron, and though he put up portraits in the place that Uncle Aaron showed him, he avoided it. He had a mini breakdown each time he went there. He never grieved Uncle Aaron because he didn't know how. How was he meant to grieve someone that had become so constant in his life? It was like everyone else just picked up and moved on. But he couldn't. He couldn't walk past where his apartment used to be without tearing up, couldn't go to the Subway and look down as the train raced down the tracks, the same ones he'd once walked on while trailing behind his Uncle, without swallowing thickly and diverting his eyes before he was forced to blink back tears.
He counted the days leading up to his Uncles death day like a holiday he didn't care much for. He hoped that the day would be nothing more than a little bit of a downer, but he knew that it wouldn't be like that. He'd be upset all day, but bottle it all up until he could breakdown and cry silently into the dead of night. When the day finally came, he told Miguel that he wouldn't be going on missions that day, and there were no exceptions. He left no room for objection. It was a statement, not anything that could be told otherwise. He muted everything on his phone and left school grounds. He didn't go to classes that day, didn't stay in his dorm or even at home.
That day, he took his phone, the radio he got possession of following his Uncles death, his headphones just in case, a bag full of spray paint, two sketchbooks (one nearly full and the other new and fresh), a few pencils, markers, and a few pens to the area in the subway down the tracks and in that back room. It was the only day a year he'd allow himself to be in there for longer than an hour or two. He planned to spend the day in there, wouldn't mind if it went into the night. It was a Friday, miraculously, so an all-nighter would be ill advised, but wouldn't negatively affect him too much.
He sat on the floor with his back pressed to the wall, his bag next to him, the radio on the opposing side of him on a high enough volume for him to hear but not for it to echo too much in the hallow room. He had his headphones loose around his neck incase he'd rather listen to something else. He had his knees pulled up and his sketchbook leaning against them, a pencil in hand as he drew in his notebook. Even though it was unintentional, he found that his go-to sketch ended up being one to tribute his Uncle. He'd thrown up art for his Uncle with his dad all that time ago, but that was a final work, one left for others to see. For his dad to see. These works were for his own personal peace of mind.
He'd done the same thing last year, found himself in this same place with the same things, drawing a tribute to his Uncle. He thinks he'd end up drawing a tribute to his Uncle every year until he died. He thinks it'd be a go-to every year, even if unintentionally. It had been a full two years, and he found it hard to believe it had been that much time. The radio had music flowing, the same music his Uncle always listened to, the same kind he'd grown to love. Aarons favorite tapes played on loop for hours, and were set to run for hours more. It was only on this specific day that he'd use the Radio. It could handle to run for as long as he needed with how little it was used.
He kept needing to take breaks, kept needing to shut his sketchbook and put it off to the side to avoid getting tears on the pages. Kept needing to turn off or down the music to avoid breaking down completely. The smell of cigars hung tightly to the jacket he had on, one that used to belong to his uncle that the man would only wear once in awhile. It was thin, loose, black with dark grey seams. It had no designs and was something he'd only wear on slightly chilly days. Miles took to wearing it only on this day, as something to bury his head into the hood or sleeve of and be reminded of his uncle. His Uncle smelled like Cigars and that Cologne he always wore, and that's exactly what this jacket smelled like. No matter what, it seemed that the jacket had the smell tied into its insides. He hoped that never changed.
After the day his Uncle died, he avoided cigars and people smoking them like it physically harmed him. Yet, he found himself smoking cigars in that room with the mural staring back at him. He always had a pack in his personal backpack, yet would only reach into the pocket the pack was held in and take a few out on this day. He kept the lighter his uncle had, a metal one you could see your reflection in. It was chipped and scraped, but was dear to him. He would refill it by hand, carefully, whenever it ran out, which had only happened once thus far. He had yet to pick up an addiction to them, but he didn't find the idea of addiction scary or strong enough to keep him away from them on this day.
He didn't speak to his parents about how he felt. Comfort wasn't something that spread though his family easily, only hurtful words and empty apologies. His family wasn't whole, never had been, but now he had no one to run to to escape it. He had no one to help him through tough times, knowingly or not. He would never see his uncle again, never be able to hear his laugh or hear his voice, never be able to share a smile with him again or be able to pop into his apartment when he wanted. He'd never be able to tease the man about anything again, he'd never be flustered over anything his Uncle would tease him about. He'd never be able to draw his uncle something again and give it to him, never be able to see the man chuckle at his sheepish or awkward expression as he handed him the drawing, never be able to watch as the man seemed to brighter slightly at the little work of art he was gifted, would never be able to hear his uncle praise him for the art and watch him hang it on the fridge. He'd never feel his Uncle ruffle his hair playfully again, never feel his Uncles hugs again.
He'd never get another text or call from his uncle, he'd never listen to another voicemail from him. He'd never steal small things from his Uncle again, never get to silently laugh at him as his Uncle looked for said thing when he realized it was gone. He'd never get to hit the punching bag the man owned again, never get tips on how to handle things in school again, never get to feel the man's hands repositioning his arms to help him hit the punching bag in a more effective way. He'd never get to rant to his Uncle about nothing at all, he'd never get to have the long talks they had sometimes, he'd never be comforted by his Uncle again when he was upset again. He'd never get to comfort his Uncle when the older was having a bad day in his own way again, never get to be picked up by his Uncle again when his parents couldn't, would never be able to laugh at a bad movie with his Uncle again, never get to eat out with him again.
He'd never see or hear or feel his uncle again.
And it hurt. And now Miles suspected he'd never feel whole again. There would always be this massive chunk taken out of his heart and soul, one he'd never get back.
He'd never get his Uncle back.