The night he died, I was already in the hospital. I had just caught his lung infection—the same one that had made his tiny body so frail and weak. My chest ached with every breath, my own lungs fighting against the same infection that had found its way into his, but for me, it was just another complication. For him, it was the end.
We shared a room. Just eight feet separated our beds, but it felt like an entire universe. I remember the soft beeping of the machines and the sterile scent of the hospital—the way it always made my skin crawl, like it belonged to someone else's life, not mine. But that night, it felt like it was part of ours. The quiet in the room was different from the usual quiet of a hospital. It was heavy, the kind of silence that presses down on you and doesn't let up.
He was hooked up to more machines than I had ever seen in my life, his tiny chest struggling with every breath. His face was pale, too pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His body was so small, but he was still trying to fight, still trying to hold on to whatever life he could. I lay there in my own bed, my body aching, but my eyes never leaving him.
I was supposed to be the one who knew how to breathe through this, but in that moment, I was as powerless as he was. I could hear him wheeze, the sound of his chest rattling as his body fought against the infection. It was familiar—too familiar—and every time he struggled to take a breath, I felt it in my own lungs. I knew what he was going through. I knew how it felt to fight for air, how it felt to be trapped inside a body that just won't work the way it's supposed to.
But his little body couldn't handle it—not this time. I knew it, even if I didn't want to. I couldn't sleep. I just watched him, watched as the nurses came in and out of the room, adjusting his IVs, checking his vitals, speaking in hushed voices like the air around us was too fragile to disturb. I could hear their words, though. "He's not responding well," they said. "We're doing everything we can, but it's not looking good." The words felt like a slap, even though I knew they were true.
I wanted to scream at them to do something more, but I didn't. I just lay there, waiting, feeling my own breath slip in and out of my chest like it wasn't mine to control. I didn't know how to help him. I wasn't a doctor. I wasn't even sure I was going to make it through this infection myself. But I was still his big sister, the one who was supposed to know what to do. Instead, I sat there in my bed, the space between us shrinking with every hour that passed.
The bed felt too big, the room too small. And yet, it felt like the whole world had shrunk to just that little room, just the two of us, battling our own bodies in ways no one else could understand.
In those 24 hours, I watched him slip away, little by little. His chest rose and fell, but each rise was weaker, each fall more pronounced. His breaths were labored, like every one was a struggle. And I felt it. I could feel it in my own chest, as if his lungs were mine, as if I was breathing for him, too.
I wanted to reach out, to hold his hand like I had done so many times before, but I was tethered to my own machines, my own battle. I wanted to tell him everything would be okay, but I knew it wouldn't be. And I didn't know how to say goodbye, not when it wasn't supposed to happen like this. There's something about watching someone die when you're so close, so painfully close, that it feels like your own body is betraying you, too. I wanted to protect him.
I wanted to somehow make him breathe again, to take the pain away. I wanted him to be able to fight the way I had, to grow up and live, but I knew he couldn't. He wasn't strong enough. And I hated it. The hardest part was the quiet. When he finally stopped fighting, when his body couldn't hold on anymore, the room filled with an overwhelming silence. The machines, the beeping, the hum of the ventilator—all of it stopped. And that's when I knew. I knew it was over.
But for those 24 hours, I still held on to hope, even when I knew it was fading. I still held on to the idea that somehow, I could breathe for him, somehow I could make it better. I still held on to the illusion that just a few more minutes, a few more breaths, might make a difference. But I couldn't. He was too small. Too fragile. Too sick.
Eight feet apart, and yet a lifetime away. It was the shortest distance I'd ever known, and the longest. I was supposed to be his protector, his guide, but I couldn't save him. And in the end, that was the hardest part—the realization that no matter how much we loved each other, no matter how much we fought, it wasn't enough to stop the disease from taking him. When he died, I felt my heart break in ways I didn't know were possible.
I didn't just lose my baby brother. I lost a part of myself. And now, even though I'm still here, even though I'm still fighting, there's a piece of me that will always be in that room, eight feet away, with him. And no matter how many breaths I take, how many treatments I endure, I will never stop missing him. He will always be my little brother—the one I held, the one I loved, the one I couldn't save. And I will carry him with me, every step of the way.
