Echoes Of Victor

Dear Vic, It’s New Year’s Eve tonight. Kenzo and I are in Nha Trang - we arrived yesterday morning. The city is loud and alive, counting down to something new. Fireworks are being prepared, music already spilling into the streets. Everyone seems ready to celebrate. I took Kenzo straight to VinPearl Island for VinWonders, hoping the excitement of the rides, the noise, the colour, the movement, might help him build new memories. Memories that feel light instead of heavy. Moments that don’t carry so much weight behind them. We were here earlier this year, remember? Back when you were recovering at home after your surgery. Even then, when you couldn’t travel, when your body needed rest, you were still there. Still calling. Still checking in. Still asking how Kenzo was going, what rides he liked, what he ate that day. This year feels different in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I tried to cushion the ache for Kenzo as much as I could. I let him spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with your f...

I dreamt of Vic last night. We were in a house that felt like home - not a house I recognise, not a place from memory, but a space that carried the feeling of belonging. The kind of home that doesn’t need walls or an address to be understood. It was changeover time. He had come to pick Kenzo up. Vic looked tired. Not rushed. Not distressed. Just worn - like someone who had carried more than most, for longer than anyone should have to. Seeing him like that stirred something instinctive in me. I looked at him and asked, simply, “Do you want to stay?” There was no pleading in my voice. No urgency. Just an offering. He met my eyes and nodded quietly. And that was it. That was the whole dream. That nod stays with me. Not as a promise to undo what’s already happened but as something gentler. A moment where love wasn’t about obligation or schedules or separation. Just choice. Just presence. Maybe the dream wasn’t about changing the past. Maybe it was about giving both of us permission ...

I woke up at 4:19am today. No dream of Vic. No message from the other side. Just the table fan still humming quietly in the dark, left on because last night’s heat was unbearable. But the moment I opened my eyes, the weight was already there. December feels different this year. Heavier. Thicker. Like the air itself remembers something I’m still trying to forget. Kenzo’s school sing-along is this Friday. Another December event without Vic. Another moment I have to witness alone, smiling for Kenzo, holding back tears for myself. I keep thinking about the first time Kenzo had a school event at the new school. Vic didn’t make it then either. He had just been discharged from the hospital that very morning. Too weak. Too tired. Too unwell to step outside. He tried so hard to get better… and life never gave him enough time. What breaks me most is this: He worked so hard to buy the house in the catchment, just so Kenzo could have a better future. That was his dream - his gift. But ...

There’s a particular quiet that comes with December, a quiet that isn’t peaceful, but reflective. A quiet that asks you to sit with everything you’ve lived through, and everything you’ve lost. This year, that quiet feels heavier than ever. As the days inch closer to Christmas, I find myself drifting back to Vic without even trying. He appears in memories, in smells, in songs, in the stillness before sunrise… and sometimes in the small, unexpected moments that catch me off guard. I keep replaying those final months, the sharp words said out of frustration, the misunderstandings, the regrets that only became clear once time ran out. I tell myself I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known. But grief has a way of pressing “rewind” on the moments you wish you could undo. And the strangest part is this: I miss even the arguments. Those fiery text exchanges that once felt exhausting… now feel strangely sacred. They meant we were still connected, still engaging, still part of each other’s orbit...

Last night, I had a dream about Vic, one that felt so vivid, so close, it lingered on my skin even after I woke. I saw myself walking down a narrow lane near home. The surroundings didn’t look familiar, yet somehow I knew exactly where I was going. It was as if my feet remembered a path my memory couldn’t name. At the end of the lane, I saw Vic. He was standing outside a house I didn’t recognise, still, steady, as if he had been waiting for me all along. I walked straight into his arms and hugged him tightly. Not just a polite embrace, but the kind of hug that pulls two people completely together, chest to chest, legs touching, the whole world narrowing into one shared breath. He leaned in close, his voice gentle and worn, and whispered into my ear: “I’m really tired. Let’s go home.” Something in me softened, broke, healed, all at once. I held him and began walking back with him, slowly, carefully, like the moment was fragile and I couldn’t risk waking too soon. His weight fe...