Echoes Of Victor

There’s something I still can’t grasp — the way everyone treats Vic’s passing as though it marks a simple, clean ending. A life concluded. A chapter closed. But how can it be so final? His body may have been cremated, yet I can’t shake the feeling that his spirit still lingers — quietly, softly, somewhere close. There have been moments — subtle, inexplicable — that make me believe he’s still here, still reaching across the divide. Between us, so much was left unsaid. So many words we never found the courage or time to speak. So many moments that ended mid-sentence, mid-thought. The world may see his story as finished, but I can’t. Not yet. Not when I still feel his presence — in dreams, in songs, in the quiet corners of my day. Maybe that’s love’s way of refusing to fade — turning endings into echoes, and grief into the language of remembrance.

It’s the night before Kenzo turns seven — the eve of another milestone, another “first” without his dad. This time last year, everything was different. I was in the ICU, weak and breathless with pneumonia. It was Vic who insisted on taking me to the hospital, despite how much he was already managing on his own. I didn’t realize how serious it was until days passed and I was too frail to attend Kenzo’s 6th birthday at Scitech. Vic made sure the day still went ahead — because that’s who he was. Steady. Quietly strong. And now, a year later, he’s no longer here. Every September used to begin with the same rhythm — Vic and I planning Kenzo’s birthday together. He was always the practical one, booking venues and sorting logistics, while I focused on the creative bits — the theme, the design, the details that brought everything to life. He’d laugh and tell me I had a knack for it, even when I’d stress over fonts or colours. This year, I’ve chosen to honour him with a theme he would’ve loved:...

Dear Vic, I dreamed of you last night — my second dream of you in a long time. You were driving me to work, with Kenzo sitting quietly in the back seat. It wasn’t my real workplace, but somewhere unfamiliar, like an in-between place where time doesn’t quite exist. We were talking about small things, the kind of simple, everyday conversations that I miss the most. I asked you to pull over somewhere safe so I could play the K-pop song that Kenzo sang. You took my phone gently, listening as if it meant something. Then you and Kenzo walked down a few steps into a karaoke shop, each holding a microphone — as though preparing for one last duet together. I remember telling you, “Your brother cleaned out all your gaming toys - did you know that?” You nodded. Then I said, “I’m going to clean up your house this weekend.” Again, you nodded. So calm. So quiet. I wanted to stop you before you left, to beg you, “Please don’t go to the hospital again. Please stay.” But the wor...

I came across a line today that stopped me in my tracks: “Tất cả yêu – hận – oán – trách của quá khứ, trong khoảnh khắc anh ngã xuống, đã tan biến hết.” All the love, hate, resentment, and blame of the past — in the moment he fell, they all dissolved completely. It said everything I’ve never been able to put into words. When Vic died, that was exactly what I felt. All the hurt, the anger, the misunderstandings that once weighed so heavily — they suddenly became meaningless. In that moment, none of it mattered anymore. Because all that remained was love — raw, quiet, and infinite. The kind of love that doesn’t need to be justified or explained. The kind that endures, even after everything else has faded away. He will always be the man I once loved and, in many ways, still do — the one who stood by me when no one else did, who shared years of laughter, dreams, and everyday life. My knight in shining armour — maybe a little imperfect, maybe a little dented with time — but min...

I re-read one of Vic’s final messages back in May — “This Sunday is my birthday. I’d like to spend the day with Kenzo… Is the timing ok with you?” I replied, “Yes, it’s ok.” And that was it. That was all. Just a few plain words — ordinary, almost forgettable — but now they feel heavy, sacred. I didn’t know then it would be one of his last messages to me. I didn’t know how close the end really was. He just wanted to spend his birthday with his son. That’s what mattered most to him. And now, reading it again, I can almost hear his voice, steady but tired, still trying to make plans, still trying to be a dad. I wish I’d said more. I wish I’d known it was goodbye.