A random day in December

I left the restaurant in a blur of tears, my heart and stomach too sick to finish my drink. The kind waitress wouldn’t let me pay because my anguish was visible on my cheeks. “It’s on me,” she said, offering a smile that, for a fleeting moment, reminded me that kindness still existed in the world. That whatever I was going through, there were still good things in life, like her reassuring beautiful smile that masked her own challenges. I nodded gratefully and fled, taking a matatu back to the hostel. How I managed to walk after alighting remains a mystery—my eyes were too blurred with sorrow to see.

When I saw Jack waiting for me outside my room, I ran even faster and slammed into his chest and dissolved in his embrace. I let myself loose.

“Ange, baby, what is it?”

I buried my face in his snow-white sweatshirt, smearing it with tears and snot. He didn’t flinch. For what felt like an eternity, I wailed uncontrollably in the hallway, until I finally mustered the strength to speak in between sobs, “Jack..” (sobs) “Sasha..” (sobs) “..is..dead!”

Jack didn’t speak. His face lost all expression at once and his eyes widened. He stared past me, right through my red eyes, straight into nothingness. Then he slowly drew me in for a tight hug, so tight I swore I heard my ribs crack. His heart pounded alarmingly against my ear, his breath ragged and uneven, lifting strands of my blow-dried hair with each exhale. He tried to contain his grief, but I could hear it—the silent shattering of his heart. He was devastated. We had anticipated this, yet the impact was as sudden and crushing as a bomb.

Sasha had bravely battled breast cancer for all her campus years. So bravely that only a few knew. Only her family, her doctors, and me—her best friend, Angela. A few days after her graduation in December the cancer had overpowered her. She no longer sought treatment, but just wanted relief. By the time she was admitted, she was emaciated, breathless from all the crying, and stooped as if trying to physically shake off the pain. I was there by her side when she was admitted, and Jack was waiting outside by the reception. It had always been the three of us since Jack and I joined campus. Sasha was more than a friend—she was a mentor, a sister. She had nurtured our relationship, helped me find my first crochet client, and even helped Jack secure his internship.

On hearing the news Jack refused to let me go; he didn’t want me to see him crumble. But I didn’t care. Sasha’s death hit all of us like a bat to the head—unexpected and instantly painful. His vulnerability made me weep harder, and we stood there, hearts locked in shared devastation. We wanted time to rewind—just a single minute, a single second—to before she gave up her ghost. But time was cruel. To go back to her last seconds would have been better than to brave that awful, dark, cold, and soggy minute.

Eventually, Jack steadied his breathing, wiped his tears, and gently let me off his chest. He led me inside. "You need to rest," he murmured, tucking a blanket over me before sinking into a chair in the corner. He was lost, suspended in disbelief, trapped between denial and unbearable truth.

I had never seen Jack like that. It shattered me further seeing him so shook, so paused by life in just one moment. He stared into nothingness, his eyes unblinking yet restless, as if searching the floor for answers. My mind fought against the reality of losing Sasha. How could someone be here one moment, laughing in the hostels, and the next, gone? It didn’t make sense to me at all! Just to be sure, I called the hospital, ignoring Jack's plea that it would only make things worse.

It did. The nurse confirmed what my heart refused to accept.

The first time someone young and vibrant dies—someone you looked up to, confided in—it blows you back, right off your feet. Right off the feet you thought you were forever grounded in because your best friend was still there. And lying on your back you think, ‘Oh sh*t, we’re all gonna die! Nobody knows when. Nobody knows how!’ And in that moment you realize how little control you have over your own destiny, leave alone the fate of those you love.

Even at the hospital, it still made no sense. Sasha lay there peacefully, as if relieved of her suffering. Her breasts looked fine. How could something so small, so unseen, steal an entire life? Steal to where? For what? What did cancer gain by taking her? The cruelty of it all threatened to consume me. I struggled so hard not to blame life or God. There was no reason whatsoever, no fairness, no logic, of why Sasha should get the cancer and not me. It is a malady of misfortune and circumstance, none of us deserve or want it. It is not based on merit, character or even corruption, it is just cancer! And that is the whole terrible thing about it. It is a thief without conscience. As Thanos would put it, it takes ‘randomly, both the rich and poor alike.’

Yet, even in tragedy, there is the faintest silver lining. Her untimely, brutal death on a random day in December bound Jack and me even tighter. It confirmed to me that if I had three lives, I would still be with Jack in two. And in the third—in some alternate universe where things were kinder, where Sasha lived—I would still be a writer, sitting in coffee shops, unknowingly trying to pen my man afresh into existence. Not knowing him, but still knowing I would be missing something—a part of me that would crave the wholeness and kindness that Jack offers in this life. And so I’d write in whichever existence or reality, penning the muscles and cheekbones of Jack to paper, in the hopes he might form out of the ink. Penning him in words that do not die out of cancer or diabetes or accident—and that way our story would never end.

But this was the life we had. And though it was painful, it was ours. So we lived, because every sixty seconds now mattered more. Every argument, every reconciliation, every moment was precious.

After the funeral, I couldn’t bear to sleep alone in the hostel. So Jack and I moved to a small apartment overlooking the lush green vegetation of Kabete. Mornings offered whispers of healing and hope. Our space was cluttered with his faded denims, my books and scattered jewelry, and endless crochet gear. On weekends, we would walk to a hidden waterfall, letting the mist cool our grief. The trees swayed with our sorrow, the wind carried our laughter, and nature mourned and healed with us.

Life didn’t go back to normal. It never does. But in the quiet, in the love that endured, we found a way to keep going. To live despite the loss. To bear days and weeks without Sasha.

✍🏽Reagan.