23 years ago I met a guy at work that was really cool. We became friends of a sort, in the way that a shy introvert considers friends. Every once in a while he’d invite me to hang out with his friends, which was always a good time. I’m not sure if he considered me a friend. I always felt like an outsider in those groups. But he was kind to me, and I love him. Eventually we both moved away from that area. I’m not good at keeping in touch, especially over long distances. For instance, my brother lives a couple of states away, I love him to death, and we talk maybe once a year.

So I’d call my friend every once in a while, and we’d catch up.

Eighteen years ago I lost my friend to depression. The details aren’t important. How he did it. Who found him. The 3 am phone call. But it was 18 years ago. It still hurts. You think you’ll always have someone, that they’re just a phone call away. That you’ll get to hear their weird take on that thing we’d always argue about. That you’ll get to hear his latest poem…

And you’ll always wonder if you could’ve done something to help them stay.

People don’t realize that they bring light to the world. That they’ll be missed. That there will be a hole in the world where they were. That they are loved more deeply and profoundly than they can know. The memory of them is a poor substitute for their presence.

Don’t go too soon. You will be missed.