I had a friend of mine who died of cancer last week. I’d only hung out with him in my first year in university, for two semesters and a summer, but we’ve stayed in touch all these years. We were a group of 16, 17-year-olds, brought together as our freshman co-ed college dormitory got broken up into four teams to play fun competitive games and sports.

Of course, we were the rowdy ones. But not too hardcore. We were just loud. Loved to laugh, cut class, sneak out of the dorm through the fire escape way past the curfew hour just to walk around campus in the dark. Maybe we’d walk a couple of more miles to grab some nasty cheeseburgers from some food truck in the middle of the night.

I thought he was gonna be fine.

Actually, no. I did not. Deep down, I knew. It didn’t look like he’d get better. I just hoped he was going to be okay. I was part of his private group of friends he set up on Facebook, where he shared tidbits of his days, the progress (or lack thereof) of his treatments, and humorous yet clever commentaries on his predicament. Still typically him — upbeat and silly, but sometimes very matter-of-fact in his health reports.

I didn’t know what to say. Once, I added a short line saying how sad I was to hear of his diagnosis. I meant to message him directly one of these days, but what would I say again? Being too optimistic and encouraging seemed hollow and insincere. Being upset and disheartened would just put the burden on him to console me instead! I guess I could’ve simply said I thought of him often and hoped it wasn’t too painful, that it saddened me to think about him leaving his young kids and wife behind. I believed he had to stay longer on this Earth since he was such a good human — quick to laugh and spit out stupid one-liners. He was warm, thoughtful, and generous. I felt seen by him.

He loved his collection of really cool, old-school watches. I wonder about them. Are they lonely now that he’s gone? Will their stories fade with his passing?