The Version of Me That Died Too

A raw meditation on loss, regret, and the ghosts we carry.

Artwork by: Shain Parwiz

They tell you memory fades.

That the edges blur.

That the pain gets gentler if you just wait long enough.

Bullshit.

I can still see it,

sharp as broken glass under bare feet.

The car.

The argument.

Me?

Too stubborn. Too stupid.

Too goddamn young to understand how little time was left.

I don’t even remember what we fought about.

Something stupid, I’m sure.

Something that meant nothing and everything

in the way arguments with fathers always do.

We didn’t go home.

We went to my aunt’s instead.

The house.

The noise.

The smell of fresh coffee, pastries, sweat, and television static in the air.

We were watching a football game when it happened.

We were all sat on the faux leather sofa,

with Dad sitting just off to my right,

fingertips away.

I remember my cousin cussing the player on the TV.

Nothing to see here. Move along.

A normal day.

A nothing day.

And then

chaos.

Bodies moving too fast.

Voices breaking into jagged shouts.

My cousins

God, my cousins,

trying CPR,

hands slamming against his chest

like maybe they could push life back inside him.

And me?

Frozen.

A fucking statue.

Just standing there while the world cracked open.

I didn’t know what to do.

Didn’t even understand what was happening

until it was already over.

Until he was already gone.

And I wonder.

All the time, I wonder.

If he had stayed.

If he had made it through.

If I had been different somehow,

better, faster, more worthy

would this twisted version of me even exist?

Would I be a better man?

Would I be something closer to the son he could have been proud of?

Or was this always the plan?

This fucking cosmic joke.

This slow grind through every loss, every break

just to see how much weight I can carry,

before I finally snap.

I wonder what he would think if he could see me now.

If he’d recognize me at all.

If he’d see the parts that are still good.

Or just the damage.

I wonder if the version of me that should’ve existed,

the one he could have shaped,

died that night too.

Right there on that carpet,

next to the football game,

while the world spun on

like it didn’t even notice.

I wonder if I ever had a fucking chance.

Author’s Note:
I’ve been unwell lately, but I couldn’t let that stop me from keeping my promise to you all. This piece, The Version of Me That Died Too has been waiting, whispering to be shared. Even through sickness, I’ve been writing, because I owe it to the words, to the memories, and to you. Thank you for your patience and for being here. This one is for anyone who’s ever stood silent in the middle of chaos, feeling powerless, yet carrying that weight forever.