My Immortal

He wasn’t supposed to die. Not him.

My brother was my soul twin. My mirror. My safe place.

He made the world make sense in a way no one else ever could.

And maybe that’s why I couldn’t say it out loud—but I knew.

The last time I saw him, something deep inside me whispered,

This is the last time.

Not because he looked ill. Not because anything was wrong.

But because the bond we had felt like it was already starting to stretch—like a thread about to snap.

He died of a heart attack not long after.

No warning. No goodbye.

I didn’t get to be there for him like I had for the others.

No bedside. No morphine. No whispered farewells.

Just a call. Just silence. Just the ache.

But I felt him when he left.

And I still feel him now.

Sometimes I think he’s the one who walks with me when I enter a dying person’s room.

The one who reminds me what love sounds like in silence.

The one who teaches me how to stay when things get too hard.

He was my immortal.

And now, he is the reason I walk with others toward their final breath.