Love After Death

Dear Vic,

Is love after death even possible?

Because that’s exactly what it feels like lately.

The grief still comes in waves - sharp, heavy, and unexpected. Sometimes, out of nowhere, the tears start. I catch myself scanning crowds, still hoping to see your face. I check my phone and - for just a second - wait for your name to light up, even though I know it never will.

It’s not just you I’m mourning. It’s everything left behind - the unsaid, the unfinished, the unresolved. The version of us that never got the chance to heal.

Maybe that’s what love becomes after someone dies. Not fireworks. Not passion. Just a quiet ache that lingers in the corners of your life. A weight you carry next to the memories, the regrets, and that small, stubborn hope that maybe, somehow, we could’ve found our way back - as co-parents, maybe even as friends.

I really believed we’d have time. Time to figure things out. Time to soften. Time to come together again, not as husband and wife, but as teammates for Kenzo’s sake. I thought we’d grow into that. That even if it was awkward, we’d make it work. That maybe we could even laugh about the past one day.

But now… you’re gone.

So I ask again - is love after death real?

Because I still feel something. Not romantic love, not exactly. But a kind of love that sits with me in the still moments. A love that mourns not just you, but the future we never got. The life we didn’t get to rewrite.

You’re no longer here, but the part of you that stayed gentle, stayed present, stayed trying - that version of you still has a place in my heart.

And I promise… Kenzo will remember that part of you, too.

— N

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