"We are here today to celebrate life."

Cory Matthews sat in the front row, hunched over, clutching her hand as he listened to the robed priest wax poetic about life and all of its infinite beauty. It felt fake, completely contrived in a vain attempt for optimism amidst days filled with darkness. He'd lost count of how many hours had passed since the news had come. He had forgotten how to breathe, sleep, eat, drink, think and pretty much live life altogether since the knock at the door had woke him up in the middle of the night. He was pretty sure that this wasn't how it was supposed to end, but this was all that he was left with.

"Here," he whispered softly, handing over a silk handkerchief from the confines of his suit pocket.

She smiled at him through the tears and nodded her thanks. It was the first time she had smiled all day and only the third time in a week. He had started counting. It had become that rare that either of them have a single moment of happiness. Once she had successfully wiped away the long trail of mascara making its way down her cheek, she reached automatically for his hand again. Her warm skin against his was the only thing about all of this that seemed real.

"Son, it's your turn," Alan announced, resting his hand on his son's shoulder from his other side.

Cory looked at his father and the toll that time had taken on his once perfectly tanned face. He was getting older now, well into middle age with three children fully raised and one in the seventh grade. He thinks for a moment how old he had felt at that age, so sure that he had life figured out. Joshua seemed so innocent by comparison, though Cory suspected that he felt just as mature as Cory had. His parents were still a wonderful constant in his life, and he knows that he would not have survived this week, like so many before it, without them.

"Cory, honey, you don't have to speak if you don't want to," Amy offered, peaking at her second-oldest son from the other side of her husband.

He really didn't want to talk, but he figured he owed everyone as much. They were all expecting him to say something. He only nodded at his mother before looking to his other side. He slowly withdrew his hand again and headed toward the podium. The sky was a brilliant blue, completely devoid of any clouds. It figured that it would be sunny, the first real spring weather they had seen all season. His eyes found hers in the crowd before dropping to her dress. It was black, a color far too dark to be wasted on a day filled with sunshine and warmth. He hated that dress, but then again, that wasn't really her fault.

"It's funny how much we take for granted."

He had been thinking about that a lot this week. Cory had been lucky. He'd had most of the same friends his entire life. He'd grown up about as picture-perfect, All-American as families got these days in a fairly safe neighborhood. He'd always had enough, went to a good school, found a good mentor in his next-door neighbor and teacher and had always been the kind of guy that did alright. It wasn't exactly without flaws, but his life was pretty good. He was lucky and he knew that. What he didn't count on was having any part of that crash down around him at the age of thirty-one. It still seemed too soon.

"But I guess that there are things that happen without our say and without any planning. Things like this."

Cory looked back down at the crowd, his eyes falling upon his parents and then his siblings and then finally back on her. He knows that he wouldn't have made it this long without her. No one else understood, got what it meant to be here after everything that happened. She felt his pain almost as deeply as he did and didn't need to ask him to how he felt because she felt it, too. That's just how these things were with them.

"It's hard enough to lose one of them but to lose them both…well, it's unfathomable really."

And it was unfathomable, completely beyond comprehension still. Grieving for one would have been difficult, but saying goodbye twice just didn't feel fair. His only solace sometimes is that they were together in their final moments, and the doctors promise that it was instant enough that neither of them would have felt any pain. Still, at night, he wonders if they heard screeching tires or the loud squeal of failed breaks or the shatter of glass seconds before their worlds went black. He wonders if the truck driver had seen the patch of ice or if they'd been blinded by oncoming headlights or if they looked at each other before everything else sort of fell away. And it's then, when he wonders about those things, that he forgets how to function all over again.

"Come on, Cory, let's sit down," she tells him gently, wrapping her arm around his back to help guide him back to his seat.

He looks up at the others at the funeral and sees how sorry they look. He hates that look of pity, the one he's been getting from people he's known his entire life and complete and total strangers alike. However, she doesn't look at him like that. Instead, she tries to be brave for him right now because it's her turn to be supportive. They've decided that they both can't fall apart at the same time. It's scheduled grieving and completely unrealistic but totally what they need to make this work.

"Sorry, I just couldn't," he says finally as someone else starts to give their eulogy.

She shakes her head and pats his hand before returning her gaze to the speaker. Cory looks down at the pair of white roses that she has laid across her lap, these two final symbols they will use to say goodbye. He knows that the time is coming. Soon, the funeral will be over and this chapter his life will be closed. He will have to say goodbye because that's what you do at funerals. Life is coming whether he wants it to or not. He was always in such a hurry to grow up when he was young, but he would give anything for time to just stop.

"It's almost my turn," she leans over to whisper, the words brushing against his neck in little puffs of air.

He tries to smile at her again, knowing that it's his turn to be strong now for her. He hands over the folded piece of paper where she jotted down her thoughts earlier, just a few scribbled words on the back of a napkin from the convenience store where they'd bought cheap coffee on their way to the park. She fingers the edges of the napkin carefully as she scans the words. She had always been able to put things in a pretty eloquent way.

"I lost my best friends," she announces to the crowd, "and it sucks."

An unexpected chuckle arises from the crowd and Cory quickly realizes that it's coming from him. He feels guilty for a moment for laughing at something that shouldn't really be a joke, but the warm smile he gets in return from her reminds him that it's okay. Somehow, it's all going to be okay. It's a comforting feeling that doesn't go away as she shares a few memories and stories. People laugh in all the right places after that, and Cory feels the tears slide away in favor of a genuinely fond smile. If only for a brief, shining moment, he is reminded that there were happy times before these dark days, and part of him is almost sure that they will somehow come again.

"You did them proud," he tells her when she slips back into his seat next to her, reaching over to brush a kiss across her forehead.

It only takes a few more minutes before the funeral is over. One by one, they drop their flowers on top of the caskets, and Cory can't bring himself to look back to watch them be lowered into the ground. The family lines up with him to receive people once they get back to the house, shaking hands and pretending to be happy to see someone after they remind you that it could have been under better circumstances. She doesn't leave his side once and hands him a glass of punch whenever his throat seems to get dry from talking so much. And when Mr. Feeney comes and envelopes them both in a hug, he's grateful when she reaches up without even thinking to wipe away the tears.

"I am so sorry, Cory," the old man says, and Cory can only nod because he is, too.

Finally, after hours of publicly grieving, the Matthews escort their final guest out of the house and Cory finds himself in his old childhood bedroom. He doesn't look up at her when she comes in, only feels the weight of the mattress as she sinks down beside him. She reaches for his hand in the dark and lies down, turning instinctively on her side to face him. He draws her to his chest and cradles him against him.

"I'm glad today is over," she announces, a long sigh escaping from her lungs as if the weight of the world is finally off her shoulders.

He turns over now and faces her, reaching up to brush away hair from her forehead. He almost says that he misses them but then she looks at him and he remembers that she is missing them, too. It's a safe haven in this little room, a time capsule where he can almost believe that the last week didn't happen. The same plaid wallpaper is on the wall, baseball trophies on the bookshelf and his old skateboard in the closet. Nothing's changed but everything else in his life. He wishes not for the first time that his mind could stop racing long enough to stand still.

"Angela," he finally whispers, her name barely audible as the tears start to come.

Just like that, she reaches up and wraps him in a tight hug, burying her face in his shirt as they cling to each other as if they're all they have left. He has lost his wife and his best friend, she has lost her best friend and her husband. Shawn and Topanga were supposed to meet them for a late dinner that night in New York. They worked at the same gallery now, Shawn as a photographer and Topanga as a curator. She lad left law behind when she had rediscovered her love for art in grad school, and the two of them had bonded over what had become their life's passion. Everything had been on track until the truck had run that red light and careened into their cab two blocks from the restaurant.

"I know, Cory," she cries with him, "I know."

They both cry for a little while and then they sit there in the dark. Angela eventually disappears downstairs only to return with a twelve-pack of beer that Eric had picked up before he left town. They tell their sad stories through the first two and lament about the future that never was by beers three and four. It's around the fifth one that Angela hits her stride, remembering funny stories from their adolescence and making jokes that only Cory could ever understand. When he tosses the cans from their sixth drinks on the floor and collapses back on the couch, he looks over at her again and feels this tiny sliver of hope. He had genuinely been happy, genuinely forgotten, if only for a little while. He knew that the moments would be far and few between at first, but he suddenly felt sure that eventually they would be able to move forward and to move on.

"I really needed this, I think," he murmurs sleepily into the darkness as he pulls the covers up around his chin.

They go to sleep together, by each other's side, just as they have all seven nights since they got that call at the restaurant. They'll wake up together and eat together and try to move on together because that's what you do when you're left with nothing else. And one day, they'll wake up and it won't be so hard and maybe, just maybe, he'll see how pretty she looks in this light and she'll feel butterflies whenever he smiles at her like that and they'll come together because of something much bigger than both of them. They'll still have those days where the grief is so overwhelming and they miss Shawn and Topanga so much they can't breathe. But on those days, Cory and Angela will still have each other.