For an entire week, I prayed and hoped and wished, every single day that he would survive.
Every single time that I received a message or a call, I was afraid for it to be those words. The confirmation that I didn’t want.
I was about to fall asleep when my phone rang. It was 5am, my uncle was calling and it only meant one thing. So I didn’t pick it up. Seconds later my moms phone rang.
The moment she started speaking, I knew. I couldn’t hear the conversation properly between the walls. but I knew what that call meant.
I couldn’t fall asleep. I cried, broke down, then wrote in my journal at 6am.
Somehow I fell asleep only to wake up 3 hours later for her to confirm what I didn’t want to know.
Today, 4th June 2020, is the one year anniversary since my uncle died. I always remember him and I always will. And I still miss him.
His death broke me. But then sometimes I wonder if its the right thing because he would not have to go through all the shit thats been going on.
I’m still not sure if I made the right decision to not go home that weekend. Sometimes I’m still angry about choosing not to go and being selfish. I don’t know if I made the right choice.
I don’t know how to end this because its not a story or advice or recommendations. It just someone who is hurt and confused and sad.
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