A Conversation…

I have these moments… The moments when I grab my phone and think about calling you… Only your number is not there anymore.

Those moments happen in the small, quiet hours, when something reminds me of you, or when something happens and my first instinct is still ‘I should tell Dad’. And then there’s that split second where I forget. Or maybe, I don’t forget – maybe I just hope that things are different.

September doesn’t feel that far away. And at the same time, it feels like a different life.

I keep going over all the talks we did have, trying to hold on to them. The normal ones. The every day ones. The ones I probably didn’t pay enough attention to at the time because I thought there would always be more. I wish I had treated thosee moments like they were limited.

I think about what I’d say to you now, if I could. I always imagine it happening somewhere simple – not in the hospital, not in anything heavy… Just somewhere ordinary, like it used to be. Sitting with a coffee, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. While watching your favourite channels or your favourite movie..

I don’t think I’d start with anything deep. I’d probably tell you about how busy my day was, about what’s been going on, about how strange everything has felt since you’ve been gone – like life kept moving but something important didn’t come with me.

And then, eventually, I’d get to the things I never asked.

Did you know how much I looked up to you, even when I didn’t say it?
Were there things you wanted to teach me that we never got to?
Did you realize how much your presence alone made things feel… stable?

I don’t know why those questions only became clear after you were gone. There are so many small things I miss. Not just the big idea of you, but the details. The way you spoke. The way you reacted to things. Even the things I used to overlook or take for granted. I didn’t realize those were the things that would stay with me the most.

Sometimes I try to imagine your side of the conversation now — what you’d say, how you’d respond, what advice you’d give. I piece it together from memory, from habits, from the way you used to be. It’s never perfect, but it’s something.

I think what I’d really want to say, more than anything, is this: I hope you knew what you meant to me. Because I’m not sure I showed it enough when I had the chance.

I’d tell you that I’m trying to move forward, even when it feels wrong sometimes — like moving forward means creating distance between me and you. I don’t know if that feeling ever goes away. But I’m trying. Trying to carry what you gave me into the life I’m still figuring out. Trying to make choices you’d be proud of. Trying to become someone who reflects even a small part of you.

I don’t know if I’m doing it right.

I just know that if we had one more conversation, I wouldn’t rush it. I wouldn’t hold anything back because it felt awkward or unnecessary. I wouldn’t assume there would be another chance. I’d stay in that moment for as long as I could.

And maybe that’s the hardest part — learning to live with all the conversations that will never happen, while still holding on to the ones that did.