Moving forward, not “moving on” from loss

Moving forward, not “moving on” from loss describes the novel’s central distinction between carrying grief and being frozen by it. For Ava Spirini, Kelly Waititi’s death does not become an experience she can simply leave behind: the bond remains, as do sorrow, anger, confusion, and love. What changes is Ava’s sense that those feelings need not dictate every choice or foreclose the rest of her life.

The pressure to move on

Ava initially experiences grief as a rupture in time. Six months after Kelly’s death, school feels slower than before, and Ava believes she may feel this way for the rest of her life. The responses of other people deepen her isolation: she feels they are impatient with both her and Kelly, as if Ava ought already to have overcome the loss. Their expectation of recovery conflicts with the scale of the relationship as Ava understands it. Kelly was not simply a friend but Ava’s soul sister, and a love of that kind cannot be ended by deciding to move on.

The novel gives that sense of arrested time a precise, recurring measure. Ava remembers the early-morning call that brought the news of Kelly’s death, at 5:37, and counts the Sundays since then. Thirty-one Sundays later, she still feels each Sunday begin in the shadow of that loss. These details make grief a continuing presence in ordinary time, rather than a single past event that recedes neatly into memory.

Grief alongside ordinary life

Ava’s movement does not follow a straight line from pain to recovery. At times, being with Lincoln Waititi makes the rest of life matter less; Ava recognizes that this is not quite forgetting, but a brief chance to feel something other than misery. That relief is complicated by the fact that the closeness between them would not have happened if Kelly were alive. The connection offers comfort while also underlining the absence around which it has formed.

A later night with Lincoln shows how grief can shape choices without making every choice wise. After drinking and leaving a party, Ava wakes embarrassed by parts of the night but grateful that she did not go further than she wanted to. The experience does not stand as proof that Ava is over her loss. Instead, it gives her a concrete reason to distinguish feeling overwhelmed from being helpless before every impulse: she can recognize a decision she is relieved to have made, even amid what she later calls grief-based choices.

Remembering Kelly without claiming certainty

As Ava revisits memories of Kelly, she searches small details for an explanation of what happened. She wonders whether an ordinary afternoon, including Kelly’s changing a drawing on a mirror to a heart, might have carried a meaning Ava did not recognize at the time. But the memory cannot establish what Kelly knew or intended. Ava’s questions remain questions, and the novel preserves the painful gap between loving someone and being able to know everything they felt.

Ava also tries to understand Kelly’s death through the possibility that Kelly wanted her pain to end. This becomes an important belief for Ava, but it does not erase the uncertainty that haunts her reflections. The continuing bond is therefore neither simple consolation nor a solved mystery: memory sustains Ava’s love for Kelly while returning her to what she cannot know. Moving forward does not require turning Kelly into a closed chapter or pretending that remembrance no longer hurts.

Forward, with grief still present

By the later account, Ava can name several feelings at once: sadness, hurt, anger, confusion, grief, and love. She describes them as still present, but not currently larger than the whole of her. The image of the box, which Nola uses in their fortnightly therapy sessions, gives Ava a way to think about those feelings without treating any one response as the only correct one. Nola’s guidance also shifts attention toward choices: feelings themselves need not be judged, though actions taken in their name can cause trouble.

Ava applies that distinction to her relationships. She can acknowledge that sleeping with Lincoln was not her best choice and that breaking up with Gideon was the right one, even though it hurt. She writes Gideon a final letter to thank him for helping her laugh, feel beautiful, and see that her life was not wholly wasted. He does not reply, and Ava accepts that silence while still feeling its sting. Gratitude and pain coexist; neither cancels the other.

The same coexistence shapes Ava’s view of the future. She does not know what work she wants to do, but considers helping people, working at Magic Kebab, or becoming a poet. Her father has begun a counselling course with the intention of working on helplines, an example of one possible way to turn painful experience toward helping others without claiming that pain has disappeared. When Ava passes the park where Kelly’s family and friends gathered to tell stories a year after Kelly’s death, laughter and tears belong to the same remembrance.

Ava’s conclusion is not that Kelly’s death will cease to define her. It will remain part of who she is; nevertheless, she can move forward, and she believes she owes that effort to Kelly. Her conviction that Kelly wanted an end to pain rather than an end to life becomes a reason for Ava not to let her own pain end her life. The final image of Ava receiving a card from Gideon and finding herself moved by happiness suggests a new feeling, not the disappearance of grief. The novel’s distinction is therefore practical as well as emotional: continuing to love and remember Kelly is compatible with making choices, accepting connection, and allowing happiness to return.