It took me a while to discover that people don’t exist in the ways we think they do. No one ever falls apart completely: sadness is never absolute, it just dissolves you bit by bit.
In January you stopped learning Latin.
In February you started crying in the shower.
In March you jumped off a bridge.
Parts of you went missing, day by day, month by month. I tossed every last fragment of my life aside, searching for something left of you in my house. I didn’t find what I was looking for until I pushed myself into a burning hot shower. I wanted to feel the way you felt. I wanted to hurt the way you hurt. The mirror steamed up in a fleeting second, and all that remained of you hung in the air.
Yesterday, after crying, I assume, you had traced your legacy onto glass: ‘mors certa, hora incerta’.
In April I looked it up.
'LATIN. 'Mors certa, hora incerta’- 'death is certain, the hour is not.’
#174- excerpts from the book I’ll never write
