why am i bitter about tomorrow when i still have today to live?

trigger warning: this piece contains themes of grief, self-harm, depression, and suicidal thoughts. please read with care.

"perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy."

i only understood what a soul truly is after my father died. from that day on, a black hole settled in my heart, pulling everything into it—including my soul. it couldn’t kill me, because i still had a heart; a warm, living, healthy one, beating as firmly as that of any breathing human being. am i still breathing? i’m not so sure. even if the flaring of my nostrils might say otherwise, the air filling my lungs drags me into something far deeper than life—a vast, unrelenting despair.

i now think i had a soul far too vast for such a small child. maybe that's why i always felt out of place—too much, yet never enough. we were the girls who curled up behind grand doors, crying in silence, pressing our hands tightly over our mouths so no one could hear—because to cry, to grieve, to show even the slightest sign of sorrow would make us targets.

i knew that soul would shatter as i grew older, because the grown-ups did the same when i was little—they only knew how to break and destroy. growing up in a family that lacked apologies, "i love you"s, or the smallest compliment only teaches you how to wound. now, when i talk to my mother, it's like holding up a mirror to her old self, and maybe that's why i unsettle her so much. anyway, my relationship with her is a whole other story.

what truly matters is how close i feel to the stars.

i was seven or eight the first time i thought about death. unlike many children, i don’t think i ever believed something magical would happen when we died—and that terrified me. if one day i would die, why was i living now? i suppose i still don’t have the answer.

i was thirteen the first time i harmed myself. by then, death no longer seemed like an enemy, but something alluring. a way out—like drawing stars next to wounds—thinking of death made the paths toward it seem beautiful. but if i was the only one seeing these wounds, why did i try to make them beautiful? no one even wanted to examine my soul. so why was i alive?

as you can see, no matter how tangled the roads may be, every time i speak, i end up in the same place. whether the road ahead is a dark tunnel no one dares enter or a forest path lit by fireflies, it doesn’t matter. life really is that simple—answering the question “why do we live?” is all that matters.

i mentioned how close i feel to the stars—let's return to that. i told you i didn’t believe in childish ideas about death when i was young—i didn’t think we’d become some kind of star when we died. i still don’t, of course—but imagining it brings comfort to the twenty-one-year-old me. because i can’t sleep. every night, when i get into bed, i no longer see my father lying beside me like he used to—he would sleep there because i was afraid of the dark, and in the morning, i’d wake up comforted by the sight of him still there.

i can’t see my father anymore. and without him, i can’t see myself.

even if you could convince the sun to reunite with the moon, clear every crowd from the roads, split the ocean in two—it wouldn’t help me find my soul. i’ve never been able to find something once i’ve lost it. but maybe, just maybe, there’s still a chance i could find my father, right?

is death a second chance given to people?

when i can’t find the answers to these questions, that once-strong heart i lost starts to feel like it’s about to burst. and then i picture myself as a little girl, on the roof of our old house—the one we moved into after my father died, the one i never got to say goodbye to. under an unrealistically bright moon that lights the street below, i speak to myself like i’ve found an old friend. i always look the same in this memory—wearing a red apple-print dress, my hair tied in a ponytail, like in a childhood photo. but i, the one speaking, change every day depending on what i wear, how i feel, or the state of my soul. maybe that’s what i miss—staying the same. eventually, as sleep begins to wash over me, i reach out to the stars. and for some reason, if i could just catch one, it feels like my father would be there beside me again. i’m sorry—that star fell three years ago, and i couldn’t catch it.

when i lost my grandfather at fifteen, i found myself trapped in a chain of nightmares. perhaps it was because, for the first time, i didn’t just think about death—i saw it. maybe it was even jealousy—why did i curse those closest to me, while i praying for death every day? anyway, it was in july of that year when i had the nightmare that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

again, it was a night when the moonlight spilled onto the sea—so surreal, you could tell it was a dream. for someone like me, finding life in the light was impossible, even in dreams. i was sitting at the edge of a pier, legs dangling, a tape recorder beside me. i don’t know what i was listening to—probably recordings of my own words. then i placed the recorder on the dock, took off my shoes, and left them beside it. and as you might expect, i laid back and let myself fall into the cold embrace of the sea. when i woke up that morning, i felt like i had truly drowned—clutching my throat, gasping for breath.

that dream felt like a nightmare back then, but three years later, after losing my father, it was the only thing i clung to. because now it made sense—why i was there, why dying in the sea felt like the perfect end for me.

i began writing today with a lyric from a song, because while listening, i felt as though even my soul—lost somewhere in the corners of the universe—had begun to tremble.

why am i bitter about tomorrow when i still have today to live?

perhaps because i could never get over the heartbreak of losing the one i imagined would be by my side in that tomorrow. not all love is the same, nor are the ways we grieve it. taking the soul from an already worn-out body turns you into nothing more than a ghost, living through memories.

they say when you die, you relive the seven most beautiful minutes of your life. for me, those minutes would always begin with the holidays i spent with my father. no place has ever felt as much like home to me as the sea. losing people teaches you how others can fill the gaps they left—and how they can also drain those very memories. whenever i try to return home, i lose my way—just as i lost myself. just as i lost him. maybe that’s why, instead of the sky, i should have searched the sea for my missing star.

healing, finding yourself, reclaiming your soul—i don’t know what these words mean, and i don’t care. i still don’t understand why we choose to suffer from afar when we could simply reunite, dad. why i let dimensions separate us. why, when i could choose death, i still choose to drink coffee instead. there must be a reason for everything—but i don’t understand why cancer chose you.

if the good people always leave early, then why are they sent to earth at all?

if they cannot live long enough to fight the wicked, if they cannot change anything, why must they witness evil too?

unfortunately, i’m not someone with the power to answer these questions, dad. i only hope—i truly hope—that i’m there in your seven minutes. you were only in the first eighteen years of my life, but i was in the last eighteen of yours. i hope i made them unforgettable for you. and i promise, i’ll find that starfish and come home as fast as i can.

when i close my eyes, you’re holding me—in those early days when i still couldn’t swim—as the sun shines on our faces and you lead me into the crashing waves. we laugh, ignoring the salty water we swallow.

in every life, by the sea.
—even in my nightmares.