Here is the complete translation into natural, polished American English, preserving the emotional weight, tone, and formatting of the fanfiction:
Hope had been sitting on the edge of the bed long enough to completely lose track of time. The room remained silent—too silent—and she kept her elbows resting on her knees, hands clasped in front of her body. Her fingers pressed tightly against one another while her eyes stayed fixed on a spot on the floor, not really looking at anything.
On the chair near the window lay the clothes she had set aside. Clothes for a funeral—her own mother's funeral. Just thinking the word made Hope's stomach twist into knots.
Funeral.
It felt wrong. So wrong. Hayley shouldn't be having a funeral—she should be walking into this room right now, looking at the mess and complaining that Hope had way too many clothes scattered across the floor. She should be asking if Hope had eaten yet, saying something annoying about Klaus, smiling, hugging her. She should be alive.
But she wasn't.
Hope lowered her head even further. Her fingers clenched into fists, fingernails digging into her own skin until it hurt. The day after tomorrow, she would head back to New Orleans—back home, if she could still call that place home—to bury her. Her throat tightened at the thought.
Her father had sent her back to the Salvatore School shortly after everything happened. To cool off. To rest. To breathe. To spend some time away from New Orleans. Klaus probably believed it would be good for her, and maybe he was even right—Hope knew she was out of control, knew her magic reacted to her rage before she even realized it, knew that staying near her family right now would only feed the chaos. But that didn't mean she liked being there.
In fact, she hated it. She hated that room, hated the silence, hated having too much time to think, because every time she closed her eyes, she saw the exact same face. Not Greta. Not Roman.
Elijah.
Hope clenched her jaw. Her uncle. Elijah Mikaelson—the man who had been there for her since she was a child, the brother who, according to everyone, never abandoned Klaus, the man her mother had loved, the man who was supposed to have protected Hayley.
Hope took a deep breath. It didn't work. She knew Elijah didn't have his memories, that he hadn't recognized Klaus, hadn't recognized Hayley, didn't even remember having a niece. Rationally, she understood all of it. But her anger wasn't rational.
He was there.
Her fingers began to tremble.
My father tried to reach her. And Elijah stopped him.
"Son of a bitch..." her voice came out in a barely audible whisper.
One of the lightbulbs in the room flickered. Hope looked up at it. The light stabilized. She took another deep breath.
"Calm down. I need to calm down."
The word didn't help. Nothing helped. She pictured Elijah standing in front of her, asking why, screaming, saying exactly what he had done—and then the images in her mind began to worsen. She pictured actually hurting him, making Elijah feel at least a small fraction of that pain.
The second lightbulb flickered. Hope closed her eyes.
I want to kill someone.
The realization should have scared her. But it didn't—and maybe that was the worst part. She wanted to break something, wanted to scream until her throat bled, wanted Greta alive again just so she could kill her with her own hands, wanted Roman standing right there watching her kill his mother, wanted Elijah, wanted anyone who could take all that rage until nothing was left inside her. Because continuing to carry it felt impossible.
Hope squeezed her eyes shut. Then a different memory flashed through her mind: Ethan's voice.
Your mother chose you.
Her breath hitched. Ethan. The hallway. His arms wrapped around her, the way she had sobbed against his chest unable to stop, his warm hand touching her face, his blue eyes slowly turning green.
Hope snapped her eyes open.
"No," she dragged her hands down her face, pushing the thought away. "I already have enough problems."
She didn't need to start thinking about him, too.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Hope raised her head and stared at the door. Maybe if she stayed completely still...
Knock. Knock.
"Hope?"
She recognized the voice immediately. Mr. Saltzman. She released a slow breath, ran a hand through her hair, and answered:
"Come in."
The door opened just a few inches first, and Alaric poked his head inside, his eyes quickly scanning the room. Hope noticed the cautious gesture.
"I'm not going to throw anything at you."
"Strangely, that doesn't reassure me as much as it should," he opened the door a bit wider.
Hope didn't react, and his faint smile faded. Alaric stepped in, closed the door behind him, and for a few seconds simply observed her: Hope sitting there, the black clothes on the chair, her tense hands resting on her legs, the lights still flickering occasionally. He exhaled softly.
"Can I sit?"
"It's the school's room," she shrugged.
"Technically, that doesn't answer the question."
Hope closed her eyes for a moment.
"You can, Mr. Saltzman."
He pulled the chair away from the desk and sat directly facing her, keeping a comfortable distance, his forearms resting on his knees.
"How are you holding up?"
Hope slowly raised her eyes.
"Seriously?"
"I know. Terrible question," he made a subtle grimace.
"Then why did you ask?"
He pondered for a few seconds before answering:
"Because sometimes terrible questions still need to be asked."
"I'm fine," Hope looked away.
Alaric didn't reply. He just sat there looking at her in patient silence until Hope caught on.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're making that face."
"What face?"
"That headmaster face when he knows a student is lying."
A tired little smile touched his face.
"I was going to say it's the face of a father who's heard 'I'm fine' way too many times when clearly nobody was fine."
Hope stayed quiet, her gaze dropping back down to her hands.
"I'm not your daughter."
"I know," came the response without a hint of offense. Alaric simply adjusted his posture, resting his hands better on his knees. "Doesn't mean I don't care about you."
Hope pressed her lips together and didn't answer. Alaric didn't push either. After a few seconds, he glanced discreetly at the clothes on the chair.
"Your mother's funeral is the day after tomorrow."
Hope's throat constricted.
"I know."
"Freya got in touch with me."
"She's coming to pick me up," Hope looked up.
"Yeah," he nodded slowly. "You're heading back to New Orleans in the afternoon."
"Yeah."
He watched her for a few moments, his gaze attentive.
"Do you want to go?"
The question made her brow furrow.
"It's my mother's funeral."
"I know," Alaric leaned forward slightly. "I didn't ask if you're going. I asked if you want to be there."
Hope opened her mouth, but no answer came out right away. Her eyes drifted back to the black clothes.
"I..." she took a deep breath. "I don't know."
The honesty seemed to catch her off guard as much as it did him. She ran her hands down her legs.
"I want to say goodbye to her," her voice dropped lower. "But I don't want it to be real."
Alaric didn't interrupt her.
"As long as I'm here," Hope looked around the room, "as long as those clothes are still sitting on that chair and tomorrow hasn't arrived yet..." she swallowed hard. "It feels like there's still something between me and..."
She stopped. She couldn't finish the sentence. Alaric remained in respectful silence. Hope blinked rapidly to hold back the tears.
"Tomorrow I'm going to see a coffin," her voice almost cracked on the word. "I'm going to see people talking about her in the past tense," her eyes began to burn. "They're going to tell stories, talk about how wonderful she was, how strong she was..." she let out a bitter laugh. "As if I didn't know."
Alaric lowered his eyes for a second. Hope continued:
"Then they're going to say those things."
"What things?"
She raised her face.
"'Hayley is gone.'" Her expression hardened. "'We lost Hayley.'" Another pause. "'She's in a better place.'" She shook her head. "Nobody wants to say what actually happened."
Alaric said nothing. Hope took a deep breath.
"My mother died," the sentence came out steady, raw. "She died, and tomorrow I'm going to bury her."
The lamp near the desk flickered. Alaric glanced quickly at it, then back to Hope.
"Everyone keeps looking at me like I'm going to shatter if someone says it out loud."
He stayed quiet. Hope gave a humorless chuckle.
"Too late."
Alaric let the sentence hang in the air. He didn't try to correct her; he didn't tell her she wasn't broken. He just waited. Then he asked softly:
"You're angry."
Hope shot him a look that practically said, Are you serious?
"Extremely."
"At Greta?"
"She's dead."
"Roman?"
Her fingers balled into fists.
"Him too."
"Klaus?"
Hope hesitated, her gaze shifting away.
"A little."
Alaric noticed.
"At yourself?"
Her jaw tightened.
"A lot."
He waited a few seconds before taking the next step.
"Elijah?"
Hope froze. The temperature in the room felt like it plunged. The lightbulb flickered again, harder this time.
Crack.
A small fissure appeared across the glass. Alaric looked at it. Hope clenched her hands violently.
"Don't say his name."
"Hope..."
"I said don't say his name!" Her voice rose, and the wood of the desk groaned under the strain of her stray magic.
Alaric kept a calm expression, making no sudden movements.
"Alright."
Hope was breathing faster.
"He was there."
"I know."
"My father tried to save my mother."
"I know."
"And he stopped him!"
Alaric opened his mouth, but Hope snapped her head up, eyes brimming with tears and uncontainable rage.
"He stopped him!"
CRASH!
The lightbulb shattered, showering fragments of glass across the desk. Hope instantly went still, staring at the damage. The anger vanished for a moment; in its place surged an overwhelming wave of guilt. She closed her eyes.
"Shit..."
Alaric looked at the scattered pieces of glass.
"Nobody got hurt."
"This time," Hope opened her eyes, her voice heavy.
The response made Alaric adopt a more serious tone.
"Is that why Klaus sent you back?"
She frowned.
"What?"
"To cool off."
Hope didn't answer, but Alaric already had the response he needed.
"Hope, being angry doesn't mean you're going to turn into your father."
"I'm not afraid of becoming my father," she raised her chin immediately, defensive.
Alaric arched an eyebrow. Hope held his gaze for two seconds before letting out a defeated sigh.
"Maybe a little."
"Thought so."
She dragged her hands down her face.
"I just..." she paused, her shoulders slumping. "I want to hurt someone," her voice came out much softer, almost like a tragic secret.
Alaric remained seated.
"Does that make me a terrible person?"
"No." Hope raised her eyes, surprised by the swiftness of his answer. Alaric continued: "Wanting to and actually doing it are two completely different things."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You lost your mother in a brutal way. You're angry, you're grieving, and you feel like several people contributed to it. It would be strange if a part of you didn't want to project that pain back outward."
She breathed in slowly.
"What if I can't control it?"
Alaric looked at the destroyed lamp, then back to her.
"Then maybe it's not a good idea for you to be alone."
"I don't need a babysitter," Hope frowned immediately.
"I didn't say babysitter."
"Then what?"
He paused for a few seconds to think before proposing:
"You don't have to go back to New Orleans alone tomorrow."
"My aunt is coming to pick me up."
"I know."
"My family is going to be there."
"I know that too."
Hope pulled her arms tightly against her chest.
"So I won't be alone."
"That's not what I meant."
She stayed quiet. Alaric exhaled deeply.
"You're going back to the place where you just lost your mother," her expression shifted. "You're going to face your family, you're going to go through the funeral, you're going to hear things you probably don't want to hear, and you're going to deal with people who are grieving just as much as you are." He tilted his head slightly. "Maybe it would be good to have someone there who isn't part of any of that."
"Who?" Hope knit her brows.
"That's up to you."
"Are you suggesting I bring someone from school to my mother's funeral?"
"I'm suggesting that maybe there's someone around whom you don't have to pretend you're fine."
Hope went stock-still. A face immediately flashed through her mind. Dark hair. Blue eyes turning green. That slightly annoying smile.
If you need to talk... or not talk... you can call me.
She looked away, almost guiltily. Alaric observed her reaction carefully.
"You're already thinking of someone."
"No," the answer came out too fast.
Alaric raised his eyebrows.
"Hope."
"What?"
"I've been a headmaster to teenagers for a long time."
"Congratulations?"
A faint, tired smile appeared on his face.
"I recognize a 'no' that clearly means something else."
Hope narrowed her eyes.
"You are annoying."
"I hear that a lot, too."
Despite everything, the corner of her mouth lifted slightly. Alaric noticed, but chose not to comment. He stood up and walked over to the door. Hope watched him. When his hand touched the doorknob, she called out:
"Mr. Saltzman?"
He looked back. Hope hesitated, her fingers nervously fiddling with the sleeve of her top.
"If I... " she paused, taking a deep breath. "If I wanted to bring someone... would you let me?"
A small, understanding smile softened his features.
"Depends."
"On what?" She narrowed her eyes.
"On whether the guy in question promises not to turn into a four-hundred-pound wolf during the service."
Hope let out a tiny laugh.
"You're impossible."
"And yet, I remain employed."
He opened the door.
"Goodnight, Hope."
She lowered her hand, her expression slightly lighter.
"Goodnight."
The door closed. Hope stared at it for a few seconds before turning her gaze back to the black clothes. New Orleans. The funeral. Her family. Her father. Elijah. Her throat tightened again.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Unlocking the screen, she opened her contacts and searched. She paused. Frowned. Searched again. Then it dawned on her.
"Oh..."
She stared at the screen.
"I don't even have his number."
She let out a soft, disbelief-filled chuckle. After everything she had told Ethan, after crying in his arms, she didn't even have his phone number.
"Well, that makes everything feel completely normal."
She slid her phone back into her pocket. If she wanted to talk to him, she'd have to do it in person. Maybe it was better that way. Or much worse.
The Next Day
Ethan POV
Meanwhile, I was walking down the hallways trying to pretend half the school wasn't staring at me. It wasn't working. Not in the slightest.
To say people were shocked by my appearance was an understatement. I had spent three weeks unconscious, and apparently my body decided to use that time to completely disregard any known concept of puberty. I'd gained several inches in height, my face had changed, my shoulders were broader, and apparently I'd packed on pounds of muscle while asleep. Honestly? It was probably the laziest way humanly possible to get into shape.
I passed two younger students. Their conversation died instantly. I kept walking, feeling their eyes burning into my back, until I heard one of them whisper:
"Is that him?"
"I think so," the other replied.
I stopped, closed my eyes, and slowly turned around. The two froze on the spot.
"You can just ask."
"What?" One of them widened his eyes.
"Whatever you guys are whispering about," I made a vague gesture with my hand. "Just ask."
They exchanged terrified glances. The first one worked up the courage.
"Are you Ethan?"
I placed a hand over my heart in a dramatic tone:
"Depends. Do I owe someone money?"
"No."
"Then yeah, it's me."
The kid scanned me from head to toe.
"But... weren't you smaller?"
I closed my eyes again.
"I was."
"And less..."
His friend jabbed him violently in the ribs with an elbow.
"Dude!"
"What? Everyone's thinking it!"
I raised an eyebrow.
"Less muscular?"
"I was gonna say less huge," he made a face.
"Much better."
I turned back around and started walking. Behind me, I heard:
"I told you it was him!"
I held up a hand without looking back.
"My hearing improved too!"
Immediate silence. A smile crept onto my face. Maybe this had its perks.
I kept heading toward class, but the problem was that those two weren't the exception. Everyone was staring. Some tried to hide it, others had no shame at all—one girl practically walked straight into a locker because she turned her head to look at me while walking. I looked down at my arms; the shirt Alaric had gotten me fit better than my old clothes, but it was still a bit tight around the shoulders. It was weird: I knew my body had changed, I'd seen it in the mirror, but seeing everyone else's reaction made the sheer scale of the transformation way more obvious.
"Impressive."
I stopped. I knew that teasing voice. I turned around slowly. Penelope was leaning against a row of lockers, arms crossed, a dangerous smirk on her face.
"No," I let out a heavy sigh.
"I didn't even say anything," she raised an eyebrow.
"I know that smile."
Penelope pushed off the lockers and walked toward me, her eyes sweeping over my body without the slightest attempt to hide it.
"So it was true."
"What?"
"The rumors."
"What rumors?"
She stopped right in front of me.
"That you went into a coma as Ethan and woke up looking like his older brother."
I dragged a hand down my face.
"Can I go back into the coma?"
"Stop being dramatic," Penelope laughed.
She started pacing around me, and I tracked her with my eyes.
"What are you doing?"
"Analyzing."
"Don't do that."
"Fascinating."
"Penelope."
She stopped again and tilted her head.
"How much did you gain? Like twenty pounds?"
"I don't know."
"Thirty?"
"I don't know."
"Forty?"
I threw my arms out, indignant.
"Penelope, I was unconscious! I wasn't updating a spreadsheet!"
She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh.
"Your arms were definitely smaller."
I looked down at them.
"Thank you for that extremely vital piece of information."
"Your shoulders, too."
"Done with the autopsy?"
"Your face changed," she narrowed her eyes.
I immediately put a hand to my face.
"Did my face gain muscle too?"
She burst out laughing.
"No, you idiot! You look older." Penelope leaned in a bit closer, analyzing every detail. "A lot older."
I pulled my head back.
"Stop inspecting me."
"If I didn't know it was you, I'd think you were seventeen."
"It's still me."
"Unfortunately."
I placed a hand dramatically over my chest.
"Ouch. That hurt."
"You'll survive."
She looked at my arm and, without an ounce of hesitation, pinched my bicep with two fingers. I slowly lowered my eyes to her hand, then looked back up.
"Are you groping me?"
She kept a completely straight face.
"I'm checking to see if it's real."
"And?"
She squeezed again.
"Unfortunately, it is."
"Glad we solved this great scientific mystery."
She let go of my arm.
"This is so unfair."
"What?"
Penelope put her hands on her hips.
"People spend years dieting, training, suffering..." She pointed at me. "And you achieve this by sleeping."
A crook of a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
"Natural talent."
"I hate you."
"Jealousy ages you, you know?"
"You were unconscious for three weeks and woke up even more arrogant."
"That's a lie. I was arrogant before, I just didn't show it as much," I replied, keeping the smirk intact.
Penelope paused for a second.
"Well, that's true."
"Hey!"
She laughed. And then another voice spoke up behind us.
"Do you really need to keep touching him like that?"
We both turned. Lizzie was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, her jaw slightly tight. Her gaze flicked from Penelope to my tight sleeve, and then back to Penelope.
I blinked.
"Good morning to you too."
"Good morning," Lizzie looked at me.
Her tone was off. Penelope picked up on it instantly—of course she did—and that smile appeared on her face. The smile that never boded well.
"I was just checking something."
"With your hands?" Lizzie raised an eyebrow.
Penelope looked at her own hands, dripping with irony:
"Usually, that's how touching works."
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
"He just woke up from a three-week coma," Lizzie narrowed her eyes.
"I know. I was here."
"Then maybe you could stop treating him like a museum exhibit."
Penelope looked at me, then back at Lizzie.
"Are you defending him?"
"No," Lizzie instantly stiffened.
"No?" Penelope slowly raised her eyebrows.
"I'm saying you're being annoying."
"I've been annoying with him since before the coma. Besides, it's who I am."
"Yeah, I noticed. You never miss a chance to show it off."
I looked back and forth between them.
"Does someone want to explain why I'm starting to feel like a kid in the middle of a parental divorce?"
Both of them snapped toward me at the exact same time:
"Shut up, Ethan!"
I blinked.
"That was terrifyingly in sync."
Penelope let out a laugh. Lizzie tried to stay serious, but didn't quite manage—the corner of her mouth twitched slightly, and Penelope caught it.
"Relax, Lizzie," Penelope gave my arm a pat. Lizzie's eyes dropped immediately to her hand. "I'm not going to break him."
"I didn't think you would break him."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Interesting..." Penelope tilted her head.
"What's interesting?" Lizzie pressed her lips together.
"Nothing."
"Penelope."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face did."
"My face is naturally expressive."
"Your face is naturally annoying."
Penelope placed her hand over her heart.
"Wow, that actually hurt."
"You'll survive."
"Stealing my lines now?"
"Maybe."
I watched the mental duel playing out between them.
"Did you two get into a fight while I was in a coma?"
They both glared at me.
"What?" Lizzie frowned.
I shrugged.
"I don't know. You seem exceptionally annoyed with Penelope today."
Penelope bit her lip to hold back her laughter.
"I am not exceptionally annoyed," Lizzie stated.
"Seems like it."
"I'm not."
"Right."
"Why did you say 'right' like that?"
I blinked innocently.
"Like what?"
"Like that!"
"I just said 'right'."
Lizzie ran a hand through her hair, clearly frustrated.
"Forget it."
"Okay, I won't bring it up again."
Penelope turned her head to hide her laughter. Lizzie pointed a finger at her:
"And you, stop it."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're laughing."
"Is laughing a crime now?"
"When it's you, it probably should be."
I let out a sigh.
"Girls are complicated."
"You have no idea," Lizzie turned her head slowly toward me.
"That's literally what I just said."
Penelope burst into a loud laugh. Lizzie closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"He really has no idea..."
I frowned.
"Idea of what?"
"Nothing!" Lizzie answered quickly.
I looked at Penelope.
"What is she talking about?"
"Absolutely nothing," Penelope beamed with a massive smile.
"You two are acting weird."
"We're acting weird?" Lizzie crossed her arms even tighter.
"Yes."
"Sure."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but her eyes flicked over my shoulder and her expression shifted drastically. All the irritation vanished. Penelope went serious at the exact same moment. The sudden change in atmosphere was so abrupt that I turned around.
Hope was walking down the hallway. Her gaze was fixed on the ground, her shoulders slightly slumped, her hands pulled close to her body. I didn't need any of my new senses to feel the heavy weight she was carrying. The argument between the girls died instantly. None of us said another word.
Hope approached slowly. When she looked up, her eyes passed over Penelope first, then Lizzie, and finally settled on me.
"Hi."
Lizzie uncrossed her arms, her voice softening considerably compared to moments ago:
"Hi, Hope."
Penelope just gave a small, understanding nod.
"Hey, Hoppie."
Hope pressed her lips together. For a few seconds, she seemed at a loss for how to start. Then she looked at me.
"Ethan..."
I straightened my posture.
"Hey."
She took a deep breath.
"Can I talk to you for a second?"
I nodded right away.
"Of course."
Hope glanced briefly at Lizzie and Penelope. Penelope caught the hint first.
"We were just leaving anyway."
"We were?" Lizzie looked at her, confused.
Penelope took a firm grip on her arm.
"Yes, we were."
"But my next class is in the same direction as..."
"Lizzie," Penelope tightened her grip slightly, giving her a pointed look.
Lizzie finally read the room, looked at Hope, and her expression softened completely.
"Right." She looked at me, then back at Hope. "See you guys later."
"Okay."
Penelope pulled Lizzie down the hall. As they walked away, I could still hear Lizzie whispering:
"You didn't have to drag me."
"Yes, I did."
"I know how to walk!"
"Could've fooled me."
I shook my head slightly and turned my full attention back to Hope. She had already started walking, and I followed her. We stopped a few yards away in a more private corner of the hallway.
Hope turned to face me, lowered her gaze, and nervously rubbed her own arm. I just waited, giving her time. She took a deep breath.
"I'll get straight to the point," she exhaled slowly. "Because honestly... I don't even know why I'm doing this."
I knit my brows slightly, but stayed quiet.
"Mr. Saltzman came to talk to me last night."
I nodded.
"He said it might be good if I had company tomorrow."
My posture shifted, becoming more attentive. Hope noticed.
"To New Orleans."
I didn't need to ask what it was for. Her eyes dropped back down.
"It's my mother's funeral."
My expression turned serious instantly. I stayed quiet, letting her lead.
"My aunt is coming to pick me up."
"Your Aunt Freya?"
"Yeah," she nodded, running her fingers along the hem of her sleeve. "So it's not like I actually need company."
I kept listening in silence. Hope started speaking a bit faster, her nervousness showing:
"My aunt is going to be with me, my family will be there, my father too..." She sighed. "So technically, I'm not going alone."
She looked up.
"Aren't you going to say anything? Or ask anything?"
I shrugged.
"I don't like interrupting people. Besides, you're not done yet."
"How do you know?" She blinked, caught off guard.
"Because you're talking too fast."
For a split second, the corner of her mouth twitched upward. Then the brief gesture vanished.
"Right. Got it." She took a deep breath. "I don't really get my father either."
I frowned, trying to follow her train of thought. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"He brought me all the way here saying I needed to cool off, that I needed to stay away from New Orleans for a while," her voice took on a tone of restrained irritation. "Said I needed a few days." She held out her hands. "Now, just a few days later, my aunt is coming to pick me up to take me right back to the exact place he pulled me out of."
I shook my head slowly.
"Maybe he just wanted you to have some space before the funeral."
She let out a breath through her nose.
"Maybe," she lowered her head. "Still feels weird."
"Families are weird."
"Your family consists of two people, Ethan," she raised her eyes to me.
"And you still have no idea how complicated it is."
Hope almost smiled, but quickly regained her serious composure.
"Anyway..." She crossed her arms, uncrossed them almost immediately, and held onto the edge of one of her sleeves. "Mr. Saltzman said maybe it would be better if I brought someone."
"Someone?"
"Someone who isn't directly involved with my family."
I nodded slowly. She took a deep breath.
"Someone who could..." She paused, her brow furrowing, clearly annoyed by her own vulnerability. "I don't know. Just be there."
Her words instantly reminded me of what I had told her the other day: If you just want to be around someone without having to explain anything... you can call me.
Hope finally looked up and held my gaze.
"So..." She hesitated, her fingers squeezing the fabric of her sleeve. "I want you to come with me."
"Alright, sounds good. But just so you know, I've never been to a funeral and I hope I don't have to go to another one anytime soon..." I let the words slip out before realizing how insensitive they were. "Okay, that came out completely wrong. I'm sorry."
Hope lowered her head, her face tense.
"I get it. I don't even want to go either. You don't have to go if you don't want to, Ethan."
"Hey, no. I'm going with you, no problem," I said firmly. "Whatever you need, I'm here."
She allowed herself a genuine smile for a few seconds before looking down again, processing my response.
"So... this was Alaric's idea, like you said," I commented. "What about your family? What do they think about it? Have you told anyone yet?"
"Honestly, no. I haven't really thought much about it," she admitted.
"No?"
"No," Hope shook her head firmly. "I mean, everything happened so fast... What did you expect me to think? 'Oh, it would be wonderful if Ethan came to my mom's funeral with me'?"
I let out a soft huff of air through my nose.
"Yeah, I get it. I guess nobody really wants to bring a friend to their own mom's funeral."
"Yeah... Anyway, Ethan, I have to go," she said, stepping back. "I need to pack my things. As for clothes... you don't need to wear a suit or anything. Just wear normal clothes, it's fine."
"To tell you the truth, I really need some new clothes anyway," I joked lightly, tugging at the shirt I was wearing, which clearly wasn't mine.
"I... really need to go. See you later, Ethan."
"Alright. Bye, Hope."
"Bye."
Ethan kept watching her as she walked away, until he turned his face to the side and a thought crossed his mind.
Man, I really do need to buy new clothes. What kind of clothes do you even wear to a funeral without looking like a total idiot? I mean... I've literally never been to one.