I Swear You Will Be Fine

Dear Josh,

I have too much to tell you this week. Normally, being away from home is a good shield. I don’t have to confront your empty room several times a day or avoid seeing our tennis coach after you passed. But the last few weeks, it hasn’t been enough of a shield.

I like to think most people wouldn’t guess what we’ve lost when they see me now. Day to day, we probably come across as quite high-functioning. But if anyone watched closely, it would be obvious how heartbroken we are.

We had a party last week. It’s the last year of uni, and I want to make the most of it. So I urged my flatmates to host a party for no real occasion. I don’t think you’re meant to have fifty twenty-somethings over on a Friday night, nine months after your little brother passed away. The last time our family had a party, I left you alone in the flat for the last time. Last Friday morning, I had constant breakdowns wondering what I was doing. I kept having this irrational, recurring thought that if the party went ahead, I’d lose another family member. So I made sure the music was playing loudly all night to block those thoughts out. Instead, I focused on dancing in a way that would’ve definitely embarrassed you. I like to think every embarrassing thing I do on earth makes you laugh in heaven.

I got good news from uni, and I couldn’t call you. That was another first this week. We were in a meeting with the dean of the medical school when I got the notification. Thank God he called for a break so I could excuse myself. I cried outside the administration office for fifteen minutes straight. I called Mum, and she cried too. She said you’re still watching out for me. It would’ve helped if you could’ve stopped me crying in public. But maybe you’re the one who sent the lovely admin staff member who found me a private room. I’m lucky though—I know exactly how you would’ve reacted. Because it’s how you reacted every time I called you over the last six years at uni.

Yesterday, some new classmates heard the story of you and Shalini—how you called Mum and me to tell us about the pretty girl you’d seen on the train, and how I dropped you off for your first date. How you getting a girlfriend was the push I needed to start dating myself. I even got to brag about your glow-up. They asked me how old you were, and whether you were in the UK or Singapore. I think from now on I’ll just say you’re three years younger than me, instead of saying 20. I don’t want them doing the maths and realising you’ll be 20 for a long time. I let one of them follow me on Instagram today—they can see my last post, which is basically an obituary, and work it out.

I listened to a song yesterday that I hadn’t heard in years, and I remembered where I first heard it: visiting you in hospital, ten years ago. I’d completely forgotten, but hearing it took me right back there. It freaked me out. I don’t know how you coped with the things that reminded you of that time. But mostly, it reminded me how long you’d been struggling. You tried so hard, for ten whole years. So even though these firsts are brutal, they’re nothing compared to what you went through. Please excuse all the crying—but I promise I’ll keep on accumulating firsts.

Love, Acca