JUST A FEW follows DEVON, a sharp, funny, deeply controlled man, as he moves through the days following his husband Patrick’s sudden death—without ever allowing himself to say it out loud.

Across Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, Devon maintains the rituals of domestic life: walking their dog Teddy, handling groceries, dealing with Patrick’s family, fielding well-meaning strangers who seem to know Patrick better than he does. Everyone else is preparing for something Devon refuses to name. He corrects details. He jokes. He bristles at being helped. He insists on order.

Patrick is never seen alive in the present—only through absence, through the stories others tell, through the spaces he once filled. Devon’s grief expresses itself sideways: irritation, humor, hyper-competence, avoidance. Teddy, their small dog, becomes Devon’s anchor—the only being who doesn’t demand explanation.

On Sunday night, alone in the house, Devon finally cracks—not in a speech, but in a quiet admission to an empty room: he doesn’t know how to do this.

On Monday morning, Devon enters the funeral home and the truth arrives all at once. The audience realizes what Devon has been running from—and why. At the service, Devon sings an original song, Just A Few, transforming private grief into communal release.

The film closes not with closure, but with stillness—returning briefly to the moment of Patrick’s death, and ending on a single, irreversible image of loss.

Just A Few is an intimate, restrained drama about how grief doesn’t arrive all at once—how it waits, patiently, for us to stop running.