We were close, me and my younger brother. Not the "hug-all-the-time" kind of close, but the real kind — inside like jokes, finishing each other's sentences, basically roasting each other constantly, but always showing up when it mattered.
He was just 19. Funny. Loud. But sensitive, though he'd never admit it. He'd just started college and was already talking about dropping out because it "wasn't what he expected." I told him to stop being dramatic.
We had an argument the night before he died. He was venting about how he felt out of place, like he was falling behind in life. I was tired. Burnt out from work. Not in the mood.
He said, "You don't get it. I feel like I'm disappearing."
But I snapped.
"You're being dramatic. Everyone feels like that at 19."
And that's somehow true, but maybe not for him.
After that coversation he went quiet. He just nodded. Said "Okay."
And went to his room.
That night, he had a seizure in his sleep. A rare neurological condition no one knew he had. He never woke up.
The doctor said even if he'd gone to the hospital earlier, there was no guarantee it would've changed anything. But that didn't matter to me. Because I didn't lose him to a disease. I lost him to a moment.
To my impatience.
To a sentence I can't take back.
For the first year, I couldn't look in a mirror. I didn't attend any birthdays. I couldn't talk about him. The guilt wasn't loud — it was quiet and constant. Like background noise you eventually start to live with.
One night, a few years later, I found his old journal. In it, I found a page titled "Things I Love Even When They Annoy Me."
Number one?
"My brother. Because even when he doesn't get it, I know he'd throw a punch for me in a second."
I read that line a hundred's of times.
And I cried harder than I did the day we buried him.
Because even in a moment I regret every day, he had already forgiven me. He knew my heart, even when I didn't show it right.
If you're reading this — say the kind thing. Even if you're tired. Even if they're being dramatic.
You never know which words will be the last ones you say.
~story of my friend
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