It had been eleven months since Elias died, and most days, I felt like I was merely treading water in an ocean of sorrow. I had learned the hard way that grief is a kind of disease for which no cure can be found.
On the days when life and its living proved harder than usual, I felt his absence all the more. The silence in our apartment was deafening; there was no comfort from his embrace, no soothing from his voice, no ease of my being by the sight of him soft in my eyes. I was drowning, and I think my friends knew it.
Then came the call from Phil a few weeks back. She was so excited she could barely contain it, whispering, “I need your help — Ryan and I are throwing a tiny engagement party. It’s a surprise, don’t tell a soul!”. She asked me specifically because I was good at decorating: “Nothing big, just pretty. You’re amazing at decoration — please?”.
I agreed, thinking a distraction was exactly what I needed. I threw myself into being the party planner. I bought pink and gold balloons, fairy lights, and silk flowers—all those festive touches. It was strange to be surrounded by the trappings of joy while feeling so empty inside. Every time I pressed Sophie for details, she just giggled nervously and insisted, “don’t jinx it”.
The preparation day was a blur. I darted between shops like I was on a mission, then spent hours at the venue decking it out until it looked absolutely magical. I felt a brief surge of pride in my work.
Finally, the evening arrived. I had the last box in the car, music on, and that satisfying feeling of doing something good for people you love. I arrived at the hall, pushed open the doors with a huge smile, ready to see Sophie’s happiness… and I suddenly froze.
The room was decorated with my fairy lights and balloons, but there was no engagement banner. There was no Ryan. Just about twenty of my closest friends and family, standing in a gentle semi-circle, looking at me with overwhelming love. In the center, on a small table, sat a framed photo of Elias and me laughing on a beach.
Sophie stepped forward, her eyes wet. “It’s almost the one-year mark, honey. We couldn’t let you do it alone. There’s no engagement. We just needed an excuse to get you here so we could hold you up.”
I almost collapsed, the facade of strength crumbling. They caught me in a group hug.
Later that night, as we sat sharing stories, my friend Sarah talked about how disconnected she had felt after having her baby, until a terrifying moment brought her back to reality. She told us how she had posted a funny picture of her scowling newborn, joking about her “grumpy” attitude and her deep “tan”. While hundreds liked it, one stranger commented urgently: “That’s not a tan. That is severe jaundice. Get to the ER now.”.
They rushed the baby to the hospital, where doctors said her levels were critical and she was hours away from permanent brain damage. Sarah looked at me across the room. “I realized that day,” she said, “that sometimes, what we think is just noise is actually a modern-day village looking out for us, where someone’s concern can mean the difference between life and death“.
“We are your village,” Sophie added, squeezing my hand. “You don’t have to disappear.”
When I finally went home that night, the silence felt different. It wasn’t oppressive; it was peaceful. I realized that while he was physically gone, the love wasn’t.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time in months, I didn’t feel panic. I felt a sense of returning. I knew that in memory and dream I am returned to you, returned home. And I finally believed that in the memory of my heart, our forever continues.
