You lose people.
That’s the deal.
Over a lifetime, they go. Relatives. Friends. Parents. People welded into the architecture of your life.
Then strangers.
People you never met. Never spoke to. Never knew.
And somehow they hit you.
You don’t know why.
When you’re young, death is somebody else’s problem. You’re bulletproof. Immortal by default.
When you’re old, you don’t think about it either.
Not really.
Because you know better.
You know exactly where that road goes.
So you don’t walk it.
Because once you start listing them, there’s no stopping.
Ten names.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Then the names keep coming.
People who mattered. People you loved. People who loved you. People who were simply there, occupying a piece of your life before disappearing from it.
The list gets too long.
Too heavy.
So you stop.
You sit there.
And you’re not grateful that you’re still here.
That’s not it.
You’re grateful you knew them.
That’s the part they left behind.
The stories.
The faces.
The stupid jokes.
The sound of a voice you haven’t heard in twenty years and can still hear perfectly.
They’re gone.
You’re not.
But some piece of you went with every one of them.
And some piece of every one of them stayed.
That’s what keeps you going.