There’s a certain silence that settles on you after watching a limited series about murder—not the kind that titillates or distracts, but one that lingers like a bruise on your spirit. This one told not just the story of the crime, but of the families left behind, trying to stitch together lives torn apart by a loss too brutal to make sense of. And in it, there was a scene I cannot forget.

A girl, just before she falls victim to the murderer, says goodbye to her best friend during a fight. That argument, however mundane or emotional, becomes the last memory her friend is left with. A goodbye laced with hurt—an ending no one knew was final.

It made me think of my own farewells, the ones I didn’t know were final. We never do, do we?

The last time I saw my best friend was at a Starbucks café. We hugged, and I told her I loved her very much. I meant it. She meant the world to me, and I let her know. That memory sits differently in my heart—not as a regret, but as a bittersweet treasure. Even though she later ended our friendship over a text message, I am grateful that in person, I had the presence to say what I needed to say.

But not every goodbye is as kind.

In 2021, during the harrowing COVID wave, I placed my aunt into an ambulance. She was struggling to breathe, and I was too unwell to accompany her. That was the last time I saw her alive. Later, I saw her only on a video call, silent and masked with machines. That was our final moment, and there were no words. She died that night. I couldn’t even hold her hand or see her body, because I was barely surviving myself.

And another aunt—her death still blurs in my memory. I don’t recall our last conversation. Did I say something mundane? Did I forget to say I love you? That absence of memory torments me more than harsh words ever could.

“Parting is all we know of heaven, and all we need of hell.” – Emily Dickinson

Death, especially sudden or violent death, robs us of preparation. It rips away the chance to mend, to soften, to love a little more. It leaves people with echoes—of words left unsaid, of touches not given, of forgiveness postponed.

And I keep thinking about those who die in such violence—their final hours, their final fears, the last person they saw. I can’t fathom the terror. I can’t help but feel a bone-deep empathy for them and their families, left behind with broken narratives.

We walk through life pretending we have time. We part ways assuming we’ll see each other again. But life doesn’t always work that way.

“The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.” – Harriet Beecher Stowe

I wish, for those I love, I could always leave things with kindness—with clarity. That even in my moments of sadness and depression, I could still remind them of how fiercely they are held in my heart. Because if anything circumvents time and death and silence, it is love.

Love is the only constant thread in this ever-shifting tapestry of mortality. It endures the erasures of memory, the noise of regret, and even the stillness of death.

“Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone.” – Mitch Albom

So I suppose this is both a reflection and a reminder: to say I love you more often, to forgive more freely, and to part with kindness whenever possible. Because we never know which goodbye will be our last.

And if we can’t always control the endings, may we at least live in a way that keeps our love echoing in the hearts of those we leave behind.