This entry was originally written on July 3, 2025.
The past few days have been a blur. Hectic doesn't quite cover it. It’s been messy, heavy—a weight that presses down on your chest and refuses to lift.
I lost all my journaling progress. Three weeks of thoughts, memories, and raw emotion, gone in a digital blink. Normally, if it was just journaling, I’d shrug it off. "It’s just words," I’d tell myself. But this wasn’t just journaling. It was important. It mattered.
It had my words for him.
And now it’s like life’s playing some cruel joke I never saw coming.
He took his own life… on my birthday. It’s the kind of sentence that feels wrong to even type. You stare at the words, waiting for them to rearrange themselves into something less permanent. But they don't. I couldn’t say anything to him. No goodbye. No “please, wait.” Just… silence.
I poured everything into those pages. The grief, the confusion, the anger, the sadness—the everything I couldn’t say out loud. Now it’s all gone. Not just him, but the words, too.
It feels cruel. Unfair. Like the universe lined it all up to break me twice.
I don’t know what else to say. But I had to write this down. Even if it’s not the same. Even if it doesn’t fix anything. At least the words are here.
The Day It Happened
It started like any other day. Or at least, what passes for normal these days. On my birthday, I woke up feeling… weird. Not empty exactly, just off. Something in the air felt strange, a static charge I couldn't explain. I brushed it off, tried to carry on, tried to be "birthday happy."
Later, my friends called. They wanted me to come out, celebrate. I didn’t really want to—my social battery was drained before I even left the house—but I got dragged there anyway. The rain started pouring, a relentless downpour that felt fitting. I got stuck out in it until around 8 p.m.
When I finally got home, shaking off the cold… that’s when it happened. A mutual friend messaged me.
“He’s gone.”
I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it. It sounded like some cruel, sick joke. I actually joked back, told him I was dead too. Denial. Pure, unadulterated shock. My brain simply refused to process the information.
But he wasn’t joking.
He told me straight. He killed himself. Found dead.
I still tried to deny it. I thought maybe they were messing with me, playing some twisted prank. But then the calls started coming in. Other friends. Their voices were different—hollow, shaky. The silence between their words spoke louder than anything else. That’s when it hit. It was real.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t think. My mind was a racing loop of "why" and "how." The next morning, I wrote him a message. It wasn’t for closure. It wasn’t to feel better. It was simply because I didn’t know what else to do.
"I don't even know how to start this. I've been sitting here thinking about you, and it just doesn't feel real. Half of me expects you to pop up, joking, playing some cruel prank on me. Half of me expects you to come online and send some dumb message, dragging me into calls like you always did.
But you're not.
And I hate that.
I miss you, man. I really miss you.
I miss the hours we spent on Discord. It doesn’t matter we never met in person, you were real. You are real. You were part of my daily life for three years. The calls, the jokes, every time you said 'I'm doing nothing,' it felt real.
Now it's just… quiet. A deafening kind of quiet.
I keep thinking, what could I have done? Could I have noticed? Should I have seen it?
You seemed happy the last time we talked. Maybe you weren’t. Maybe you’d already decided.
I wish you had told me, man. I wish I had seen it. I know you’d probably tell me to stop overthinking, to stop blaming myself… but I can’t.
I don’t know what to say to you now. I just… hope you’re at peace, wherever you are."
The next day, I messaged him again. Hoping, somehow, stupidly… that he’d reply. That the "Online" dot would turn green.
Nothing. Just empty.
Since then… I’ve had no motivation. I’m not working. I’m not living, really. I’m just… existing. Floating through the days.
And then I found that letter from myself. The one I wrote five years ago. I thought reading it would help distract me, give me some perspective. It didn’t. Three days ago, I opened it. The tears just… came. I didn’t want to cry, but I couldn’t stop it. It was like a dam breaking.
I feel like I’m back at that place. That dark place I thought I’d left behind years ago.
Most days now… I don’t even want to wake up.
December 1, 2025: A Reflection
It's been a few months now. Reading this entry again is like reopening a wound that had just started to scab over, but I know I can't stay in that dark place forever. It’s time to move on—not to forget, but to look forward. The pain is still real, sharp and sudden at times, but life has to keep going. I think it's for the best.
This year has been incredibly hard. So many people in my circle have passed away that I've lost count. It's surreal, bordering on nightmare. Normally, I might lose one or two people a year, but this year, it feels like I'm losing someone every month. I think I've become numb to it, a defense mechanism against the constant grief.
But the death of my best friend... that's different. That's a pain I'll never forget. It cuts deeper. I miss him so much. Sometimes I'll open a social media app and see his account, his profile picture unchanged, and it all just hits me again. The realization that he's never coming back. I close it right away. It's just too hard.
But I think it's finally time. I can move on. I have to move on. For him, and for me.