I got a birthday reminder from Facebook today. It was for a friend who took his life 13 years ago.
This notification appears every year, but for some reason, seeing it today felt like the first birthday after he passed. It hurt to see that reminder, and in that moment, I was instantly transported back to when I found out he was gone.
It was the night before one of my third-year exhibitions. I had stayed up until the early hours, setting up and preparing. I was utterly exhausted when I faced that news alone. My world shattered. I was devastated and in shock. Writing about it now brings tears to my eyes and elicits a deep, aching pain in my heart and chest.
I can’t say I was his closest friend, or he mine, but I remember our brief encounter so vividly. It was incredibly short and made shorter by his passing, but I’m struck by how much I remember about him and how incredibly sweet he was to me.
What hurts most is considering the circumstances of his passing. I can’t help but wonder if I could have done something different. That’s not to centre myself; it’s just a deep, painful reflection I carry.
I wish things had been different for him. It’s heartbreaking to try to reconcile the reality he faced 13 years ago, and I wish he hadn’t endured it alone.
There is so much hidden brokenness in people’s lives that has led to this same fate. The reasons for that brokenness are vast and complex. I often internalise this and wonder if I’m being the best person I could be to someone facing such darkness in secret. Am I loving and caring toward everyone I meet, trying to help their day be a bit brighter?
Today, his memory reminds me that the brief encounters we dismiss as insignificant might be the ones that linger most deeply in another person’s heart.
Perhaps the greatest tribute I can offer is to carry forward the sweetness he showed me—to be present in small moments, to provide genuine kindness without agenda, and to remember that sometimes, the most ordinary interactions hold extraordinary power to comfort or connect.
In holding space for his memory, I hold space for the profound impact we can have on each other, even when we don’t realise it.
