Hunter. My dad. My grandma. Stan. Like, every year someone new plinks off. Someone close to you just leaves, and you don’t know why it was then, or why it had to happen at all.
When it rains it pours, and it’s never just a sprinkle. Bad things come in more than threes, and there’s nothing you can do to prepare for them.
There’s nothing you can say about death, or pain, or tragedy to make it seem real. To make it seem genuine. It’s always trite.
“It’s like I’m in a fog…I can’t look at him…it’s just a shell, it’s not him anymore…I’m so sorry…let me know if there’s anything I can do…It’s too bad you have to go through this…you’re too young.” None of it sounds sincere, even if it is. I’ve been on both sides, and you can never say the right thing.
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