Go on then…

Live.

Source

the first time you were asked what made you do it, you answered with the first thing that came to mind: “i was bored.” later, as the camera flashes multiplied and the headlines became so frequent, they no longer stung your eyes but seared through your whole body instead; you realized it had always been deeper than that. it came from a primal desire that had lain dormant since your birth—until the day you decided to take the shot.

you had always been the quiet one, the logical one. that was why it took so many people by surprise when you went through with your decision, much less thought it through. what they didn’t know was that the moment you held your best friend in your arms and watched him take his last breath, something in you shifted. as the warmth left his body and the light drained from his eyes, your former self began to fall away with it.

it had always been the two of you against the world. now it was only you. you didn’t know what to do with the loneliness or the pain hollowing you out, and somewhere along the way that confusion coalesced into a slow, steady anger. that anger fueled every decision you made from then on. on the outside, you stayed calm and composed because he had always been the one to keep you grounded, the balance that kept you from tipping over. because he knew.

he knew your silence was born from terror. he said once, almost casually, with a smile in his voice, “maybe that’s what drew me to you, this silence that wants to swallow you whole. it felt like i could see past it. like there was a light in you, and it was already starting to fade.”

on the morning he died—a wednesday, one of your two favorite days—you woke with a weight pressing against your chest. the night before, you had watched a video that quietly rewired the way you thought. when you showed it to him and talked it through, the words he said next—the last words he would ever say to you—became your why.

it was why, for the first time in the four years you’d spent feeling trapped inside the university campus, you broke your routine: room, classes, back to the room. that day, you skipped every class. it was why you finally went online and found your target, the one person you’d been waiting for an excuse to meet. it was why you decided to take the shot.

you’re pulled back from the reverie by another burst of camera flash. it stings your eyes, and you make a mental note to never forget your shades again. for a moment, you worry the reporters pressed around you can taste the nervousness in your sweat, so you crack a smile and say the only words that come: “this is for you, my egghead, Refz. this is for the life you couldn’t live.”

with that, you step off the stage, fingers tight around the now laminated note he’d left behind before letting the darkness—that you hadn’t seen in all the years you’d spent together—take him. the last words he ever said to you, scrawled so carefully in his unusually beautiful handwriting.

the note read: “go on, then. live today like it’s your last. if tomorrow comes and finds you here, let it meet you in a better place. then live it too, like it’s your last.”

you step outside the arena, away from the roar of the gathered crowd, many of them fans, some fellow scriptwriters or directors, only a fraction of whom you recognize. part of you wants to revel in their praise; part wants to collapse in tears at the magnitude of it all. you find a dark corner backstage, pressing your back against the wall, trying to will the tears away, but they burn like molten iron as they glide across your skin.

your mind slips back to the day you and Refz met, on the school’s football field during a match between your faculty and another. he was magnetic, always surrounded by people, naturally drawing attention. you were the shy new transfer student, watching from the sidelines, your excitement sparking only when you talked about football or dreamed of filming and writing; things that felt distant because your path had been set: engineering or nothing.

Refz was the only one who saw your depth. he urged you to be fearless, endlessly curious about your growing stack of unseen drafts. he knew the only thing that gave you any sense of fulfillment was writing and filming, but you hadn’t dared try. what would your father say? what would people think? how could your family accept that their first son didn’t want to be an engineer, but wanted instead to build worlds with words and images?

on the day he died, you clutched that note so tightly it felt imprinted on your skin. you held onto it as you began sharing your work, pitching to directors and screenwriters. as your work started to get noticed, you held it through rejection after rejection, and when the first acceptance finally came, from the one person you needed it most, you held it still. you held it when your name was called in that hall as the best director.

the one person who had guided you through the darkest days, who had never stopped reminding you to live truly, wasn’t here to witness this moment. and now, as the tears finally come in their entirety, they carry the full weight of everything—grief, love, gratitude—pouring down, heavy and undeniable.

---

***

inspired by true-life events.

****

even though the month is already 7 days old, happy new month, dear comrade.

january’s entry feels surreal largely due to the fact that this is the first time i’m publicly trying fiction writing in almost eight years, if not more. more than anything i’m glad to be sharing it here, with you.

please feel free to drop constructive feedback, i look forward to them.

i hope the rest of february is good and kind to you. i hope you experience great love, the unwavering kind.

till i write to you again, dear comrade

stay jiggy❤️🤟🏾

melody for us: