I curl up on the couch, knees tucked beneath me, chewing my thumb nail. Jude’s face stares back from a paused video. He’s older, lean muscle, tattooed. There’s something in his eyes I recognize, even through the distance of years. I take a breath, and I press play.
His voice has that same beautiful rasp that used to make me melt into a puddle. He smiles through the interview, but it’s hollow and far away. My throat tightens because...Iknowthat look.
It’s the one he wore when he was lying to keep from falling apart in front of everyone. I remember seeing that expression the day of his little brother’s funeral. He tried as hard as he could to keep himself strong for his mother, but she was a wreck. Sobbing against his chest while his father spoke of the playful child that was taken far too soon.
I know him more than any of them.
The crowd screams when he laughs, but it never reaches his eyes. It’s him. And it isn’t. I click on another video—a live performance, this time. The sound crashes through the speakers, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. His voice is still the most incredible thing I’ve ever heard. There is raw, unfiltered emotion woven into every single note. But all I can think about is the hell he must’ve walked through to sound like that. The women who came after me. The nights he probablyforgot my name, and the mornings he maybe didn’t. Especially when he texted me. The why behind that has all but consumed me on so many nights. It proved that he still thought of me and missed me even after all this time. I know I need to get over it, but I’d be lying if I said that Jude Graves wasn’t the biggestwhat ifin my life.
I’d tried to avoid all of it. His songs, his interviews, and the photos that made my heart race and ache all at once. But it’s impossible to outrun someone whose voice feels like home.
He leans into the mic like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.
I should stop.
I should close the laptop, go to bed, and forget him. But my hand drifts, almost on its own, to a suggested video in the sidebar. A blurry thumbnail of him onstage with the words in bright red letters:“Jude Graves Collapses on Stage in Chicago.”
My stomach drops. I freeze. My pulse is racing, and my hands are shaking as I click. The video loads. He stops singing and sways, taking a few staggering steps before he collapses. The crowd is screaming, and chaos ensues. The camera shakes violently as someone pushes forward. Lights strobe. The music cuts out.
And he’s on the ground.
Jude is on the goddamn ground.
His body jerks as if he’s having a small seizure, and when the shuddering stops, his chest barely rises. A stagehand is on his knees beside him, shouting for help, while another grabs Jude’s limp wrist, trying to find a pulse. People are rushing. Someone is crying. The phone filming zooms in too close, too fast—
And I see his face.
His lips are paling.
His chest isn’t moving…
I slap a hand over my mouth, but the sob tears out anyway. I curl forward, the laptop wobbling on my knees as tears spill hot and fast down my face.
This is the man I loved.
The boy I knew.
And he isdyingin front of me.
A hollow, sickening sound rings in my ears, like something inside me cracking straight down the middle. I can’t breathe. Can’t look away. My hands are gripping the screen so hard my knuckles ache. Someone screams his name in the video.
I don’t realize until a few seconds later that I’m whispering it too. Over and over. Like a prayer.Like a plea for him to come back. To wake up. Then the footage cuts out abruptly. The silence after is devastating.
I fold over my knees, shaking. My tears drip onto the keyboard. I try to wipe them away, but more keep coming, heavier and harder, until I can’t see anything through the blur.
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe this is what he’s become.
That I’m sitting here watching him almost die.
The following video shows him steady, alive, and confident, but that image is ruined now. That version of him feels like a lie. Because all I can see is the moment he collapsed. The second his chest stopped rising. The way the world around him dissolved into screaming and frantic hands. I press my palms to my eyes, trying to force the images away. But it’s too late.
I’ll never unsee it.
I close my eyes.
And suddenly, I’m sixteen again.
~ A memory ~