Sorry for your loss

Jun 03, 2026

"It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone."
— John Steinbeck

Today I told someone
I was sorry for their loss.

Such a small sentence.

A handful of careful words
passed between two people
like a candle being carried through the dark.

And afterward,
long after the conversation ended
I found myself thinking about you.

Not in the usual way.

Not your laugh.
Not your eyes.
Not the particular softness of your voice
when you are tired.

I thought about your mortality.

And mine.

I am no longer afraid
of the things I used to fear.
Not really.

You could stop loving me.

You could wake one day
and discover your heart has wandered elsewhere.

You could choose another life,
another road,
another future that does not have my name in it.

And it would destroy me.

Of course it would.

I would grieve you until my heart would stop.
I would carry your absence for years, perhaps forever.

But you could choose it.

There is humanity in that.

There is a strange kind of dignity
in being left behind by someone still alive.

Because at least they are still alive.

At least somewhere
beneath the same sky
they are still laughing at something.

And suddenly I am terrified.

Not of losing your affection.
Not of losing your interest.
Of losing your existence.

Of the world continuing
without your heartbeat inside it.

I think of all the things I still want for you.
The thought of a universe containing less of you
feels fundamentally wrong.

And yet,
I love you with all the arrogance of someone
who still dares to imagine tomorrow.

I love you as if we have time.
Not because I know we do.
Because I hope we do.