My dad is dead.

The song loops.

Inhale.

Sip.

My dad is dead.

It doesn’t matter in what order it happens, the narrative still stays the same. This isn’t a pity sob story about the girl who went on an adventure, found herself, and then lost her dad. There is no story here to tell except for the one that he is gone.

The world felt very big. Now it just feels bigger and a lot more alone without you here. No one can fill that void. It’s an empty space with echoes of your laughter.

Smiles on an empty face.

Tears in empty eyes.

Thoughts in an empty mind.

Numb.

Nothing.

It doesn’t matter in what order it happens, the narrative still stays the same. And no one understands. No one understands what you meant to me. Who you were to me. What you were to me.

You were my sense in sensibility. My calm in my chaos. My voice in my silence. And now you are gone and no one can understand.

I read something the other day that said that there are different versions of yourself even to your own self. That who I am to me, and myself, is different then the version of myself to you.

My version of you dad is different then the version that anyone else has. Your version of me is the one that I always wanted to be, even if I never showed you or told you. And no one will ever understand my versions the way you did.

I don’t know how to be that version without you.

It doesn’t matter in what order it happens.

The narrative still stays the same.

My dad is dead.

Exhale.