I Swear You Will Be Fine

Dear Josh,

Today, I hugged a boy who looked like you. He had long, curly hair like you used to.
He had to bend down to hug Mum and me, just like you did. I had dinner with him and Mum in a foreign country — something we’ve done countless times before. I told him about concerts he should go to, like I used to tell you. He recommended music to me, just as you did a million times. But he wasn’t you.

Not just because he was more polite to me than you ever were (and I was more polite to him than I ever was to you). But because your hair was shorter. Because you didn’t wear your round black glasses. You never carried a backpack when we went out for dinner. And when Mum said something silly, you’d roll your eyes with me.

We’re so lucky in so many ways. You were lucky too — you had friends and a girlfriend who cared so deeply about you. They still do. They care about you so much that now, they take care of us. And when one of the tall ones with hair like yours hugs us, my heart twists in a way I didn’t know it could. I think it’s because I know it’s the closest I’ll get to hugging you for a while.

You couldn’t have asked for better friends, Josh. They make the effort to have dinner with Mum and me in a foreign country. They bought me beautiful purple earrings to congratulate me. I still don’t know how to thank them for. The last congratulatory present you gave me was also a pair of earrings, for my graduation. I haven’t taken off the ones your friends gave me since I received them.

The hardest part is realising I’m still trying to be a big sister. To your friends, to our cousins, to my friends’ little brothers. There’s still so much I want to tell you. I never got to give you advice about moving to a new country, because we were too scared to let you out of our sight for that long. I didn’t tell you to go out loads during freshers, because you were afraid of having the same relationship with alcohol that Dad did. I never got to take you on a night out with my friends in London or to a music festival. There’s still so much we didn’t get to do.

Even when you were here, the illness stole so much from you. You did visit me in London. We went to concerts and dinners with my flatmates. But the illness made it so hard for you. And, if I’m honest, for me too.

Having dinner with your friend, I found myself struggling to imagine how you’d react. I wasn’t sure if it was because it’s been 285 days since I last saw you, or because I haven’t watched a video of you in a while. A couple hundred days — is that really enough time to start forgetting someone you knew for twenty years?

Then I sat down to write this. And suddenly, I could imagine you right next to me.

We wouldn’t make eye contact — we never needed to. You’d be on your phone in your boxers, and I’d be in torn pyjamas on my laptop. Your hairy legs would be parallel to my folded (probably equally hairy) ones. You’d ask if I’d seen something obscure about some celebrity, and I’d give my typical unimpressed response. You’d smirk and say something ridiculous. I’d probably pick a fight because you were annoying me.

Then Mum would chime in with something completely unrelated, and we’d glance at each other and laugh. She’d ask why we were laughing, and we wouldn’t explain. Eventually, one of us would give her a one-liner summary so we weren’t being mean.

I miss living life parallel to you. I just miss you. You’re sending us angels through the people who love you and now look after us. If you want me to keep practicing being a big sister to them, I will. But only if it means I’ll get to be one for you again.

Love, Acca