Edited by: Priyal Mittal
When someone you love dies, the world doesn’t pause. There’s no dramatic music, no slow motion montage, no cinematic sunset. Cars rush past on the street below, the neighbour’s dog keeps barking, and the sun still rises, bright and warm.
And in the middle of this, you’re expected to just carry on, as if something irreversible didn’t just happen. That’s the part no one warns you about, and you hate all of it.
The house was full- but nothing felt real. People walked in and out saying things like “Stay Strong” and “They’re in a better place.” Someone even said “At least it was peaceful,” as if death ever is. I nodded a lot, and that’s all I remember doing because no one really knows what to say, and you don’t know what to hear either. What I remember most though, is the guilt. Not just the guilt of losing them, but the guilt of living after them. Of eating when they couldn’t. Of sleeping when their body lay still. Of laughing at something on the TV a few days later.
We imagine grief as this big emotional wave, but often, it’s just opening their phone after they’re gone. It’s figuring out how to close their bank account and who knows where their passport is. You don’t understand how much space someone fills up until they’re gone. The empty chair in their room feels like the world is just teasing you with their absence. I found his sweater still on the hanger, with the sleeves casually rolled up like he’d come back and wear it again. I sat there for what felt like hours trying to convince myself that none of this was real. That he would just come back from work, looking for his grandkids, making some joke, or craving dinner. But he didn’t, and he never will again.
Over time, I’ve learned that grief is not a straight line. It loops and spirals and comes back. Some days, I feel numb. Other days, I laugh at a memory so vivid that I almost feel like his voice is speaking to me, and moments later I’m crying because that voice is now only in my head. I thought big days- anniversaries, birthdays, festivals- would be the hardest. But I was painfully wrong- it was the ordinary days that hurt the most. I cried while walking down the grocery aisle and seeing the biscuits he used to have with tea. I cried again when his favourite song played on a YouTube advertisement. It’s every small mundane reminder that he existed, and now he doesn’t.
And then you’re left with the lasts- the last text, last hug, last smile. I cling to these things like they’re the final scenes from my favourite movie that I never want to end. I cling to his videos, re-read his messages, and try to memorise every contour of his face. But the truth is, I am scared. Scared that I will forget the sound of his laugh, or the smell of his perfume as he left for work.
“Jitna zyada pyaar tha, dukh bhi utna hi hoga” (translation: the more you love, the more you grieve) said one of my relatives. And it’s true. If I could go back and choose again- knowing the kind of pain I’ll feel- I’d still choose him 100 times over. Why? Because for every piece of sorrow there was an overwhelming amount of love and care. There were Sunday night get-togethers, the smell of tea and snacks every afternoon, and the proudest eyes as I left for college. There were long conversations about everything and nothing, a kind of warmth and quiet understanding that no one can ever match.
But for now, I live with a wound that no one can see. A part of me is missing and I know I can never get it back. People say time heals, but I don’t fully agree with that. Time just teaches you how to carry the pain. It does not disappear- you just learn to live around it. I still leave a seat at the table, still make his favourite dish, and still celebrate his birthday. You move forward, not because you’re ready, but because there’s really nothing else to do.
So no, the world didn’t stop when they passed. But mine shifted, quietly and permanently. I still go to classes, still answer emails, still scroll through instagram and think of stupid things like what I’ll wear tomorrow. But underneath it all, something has changed. I am carrying him not like a wound, but more like a thread I hold on to for dear life. The pain means you loved them deeply, and that kind of love never really dies, it just changes form.
So I carry him in everything I do, and I always will.