Last night, I sat and waited till someone died.

 

Slowly, his heartbeat kept getting slower. His breathing became hoarse. His hands became cold.

 

Then the whole body went into a coma.

 

W didn’t know if he could hear us anymore.

 

And finally, his heart was hardly beating.

 

I remember the last time this happened.

 

It was someone I had come to love very much.

 

I had know him only for a couple of years.

 

But I had come to love him much more than many people I had met.

 

That time, I prayed that he would recover.

 

That someone, somehow would give me hope that he will not die.

 

And by some miracle that he would live.

 

It will get better.

 

It will get better.

 

I kept telling myself.

 

But it didn’t.

 

He died.

 

I cried like a child.

 

When a guy from office came over to see how things were, I remember hugging him and sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, and telling him, “He died”.

 

And I also remember how, for a few months, I couldn’t even look at a photograph that reminded me that he was no more.

 

Every time I saw a photograph, my eyes welled with tears.

 

And I was reminded that things didn’t go the way I had wanted.

 

Or the way I had hoped.

 

Something, somewhere had gone horribly wrong.

 

I didn’t have anyone to blame.

 

Maybe I blamed him for dying.

 

If only …

 

So many if only scenarios went through my mind.

 

If only he had lived.

 

If only God had let him live… why was I blaming God when he died but never blamed Him for the way he lived?

 

 

But this time, watching someone die wasn’t so painful.

 

Maybe now I have got used to the fact that someone can die.

 

Someday.

 

It will all be over.

 

I wonder when I’ll die.

 

Or how.

 

How morbid.

 

I can never change it.

 

Maybe he only thing I can change is the way I live now.

 

So that one day when I die, at least one person will cry his or her heart out.

 

Because I had lived.