The Grief Assignment
A love letter from Death
They're a collection of almosts…
I notice people like that. The ones who move through life like whispers, barely disturbing the air. The ones who hesitate, who second-guess, who never quite believe they are allowed to take up space.
I've seen them all.
I remember every single one.
I remember their names. The way their voices crack when saying "no" for the first time. The memories that make their eyes spark—the ones that make their shoulders curve inward.
I know which songs they play on repeat at 3 AM, which words they write and erase and write again.
I watch. I always do. It’s my nature, my covenant with the universe. I linger in the spaces between moments, in the quiet, in the pause between heartbeats. I don’t interfere.
I try not to get attached.
But I do.
They mark their existence in small ways. Double-knotting shoelaces, leaving sticky notes on mirrors, pressing flowers between book pages. As if they know, deep down, that life has a habit of being unpredictable. I want to tell them that some threads aren’t meant to hold—that even the strongest knots unravel in my hands.
They collect things: old birthday cards tucked in shoeboxes, unsent letters, unspoken words.
They ask how people are and actually want to know. They tip too much, remember names, make sure no one feels unheard. Kind in ways most people never notice.
But I do.
They always text first but never double-text. Always reaching out, never far enough to seem desperate. Always waiting. Always hoping. Never quite believing they deserved to be seen.
And I, who have seen every soul that ever lived, ask myself…
What else in this world is worth seeing, if not them?
And I wish—
No. Wishing is a luxury even Death cannot afford.
They always believe in 'later.'
Later, they’ll meet that friend for coffee. Take that trip. Make that call. Say "I love you” for the first time. They collect tomorrows like stamps, never realizing how finite that collection truly is.
Then it happens.
A sharp inhale that never turns into an exhale. No warning. No dramatic final words.
Just motion. Impact. Silence.
The world doesn’t stop. The sky doesn’t darken. People keep moving. Life goes on, indifferent.
But, for the first time since stars learned to die, I want to scream at the universe’s cruelty.
No one calls out their name. No hands reach for them.
But mine do. Mine always do.
Even when they tremble.
I catch them before they slip away completely, holding them in that space between seconds where eternity holds its breath.
Their eyes meet mine.
They never scream. They don’t beg. They just look at me, searching for an answer they’ll never fully comprehend.
And I, who have spoken every language ever whispered, cannot find the words to soften this moment.
Death.
So I offer them truths:
That they were enough.
They were seen.
Their kindness mattered.
That they were never as invisible as they thought.
That they were never truly alone.
That Death himself wished for mortality, if only for one chance at existing in the same life as them.
That they were not forgotten.
Somewhere, a tear slides down a cheek for a reason unknown. A man pulls his car over, overwhelmed by a grief he cannot name.
It is not cruelty. It is not chance. It is balance.
When a soul slips away with no name spoken in remembrance, the weight of that loss does not vanish. It must go somewhere.
Grief is never wasted.
The universe will not allow it. The mourning must be done, and so—on behalf of the forgotten—you grieve. We all do.
A whisper of sorrow, placed with unseen hands. A nameless ache behind your ribs. An unfamiliar grief settling over you like a shadow. You do not know why your throat tightens, why your breath catches, why a sadness not your own lingers.
We are mourning a life lost.
Even after the last star collapses and the universe exhales its final breath, I will remember.
But before the weight of grief tightens its grip, there’s something I need you to know.
You were not created to be a whisper.
You are not an apology disguised as a person.
I have cradled pharaohs and prophets, queens and conquerors, poets who moved nations and leaders who shaped worlds—not one of them was more deserving of their space than you.
Be loud. Be messy. Take up space. Let your laughter startle the stars. Let your tears carve canyons. Let your love be a force that reshapes reality. Write your name in the book of existence with bold strokes, and don’t you dare apologize for the ink that spills over the lines.
Because one day, you will meet me.
I will not ask if you lived quietly enough, if you loved cautiously enough, if you managed to get through life without inconveniencing anyone. I will ask if you lived fully. If you loved fiercely. If you finally learned that you were always meant to be more than a footnote in someone else’s story.
You don’t need to earn the right to exist. You don’t need to justify the space you occupy. You don’t need to wear yourself down into something small enough for others to swallow.
The universe crafted you from stardust and dreams, and it did not spend billions of years on your creation for you to live apologetically.
Let them remember your name as I will.
This one really landed, wow! So dark and yet so full of light. Meets me in my time of grief and softly holds me. Thank you!
So beautifully poignant✨