The call had come out of nowhere. You had been expecting something mundane, maybe a casual check-in or a silly story, but the moment you heard his voice—shaky, broken—you knew something was wrong.
And then he said it.
You thought he was joking at first. He always joked, always found a way to turn the worst into something lighter. But this time, there was no punchline. Just silence, raw and unbearable.
You felt his pain through the phone, the way he struggled to breathe, even though he was still here. Still standing. But a part of him had stopped living. Like the grief had swallowed him whole and left only a shell behind.
You didn’t know what to say. Nothing you could offer would bring her back. Nothing could fill the space she left behind. But you knew what she would want.
She would want him to live. To love. To chase the fire and never look back.
So, when you finally reached him, when you found him in the quiet of his apartment—staring at the same old photos, the same walls that held memories like ghosts—you didn’t try to tell him everything would be okay. Because it wouldn’t. Not right away.
Instead, you sat beside him, took his trembling hands in yours, and whispered, “Tell me about her.”
His voice cracked, but he did. He told you about her laugh, about the way she never missed a game. About how she always made a birthday cake, even when she didn’t have the strength. About how the moon reminded him of her, because she had always promised she loved him “there and back.”
And when his voice broke completely, when his shoulders shook under the weight of it all, you held him. Let him grieve.
Because she had made it to forty-eight.
And she would want him to live.
