💔 “What Would You Say to Her?”

 

— A Letter I Wasn’t Ready to Write

Someone asked me a question the other day. Simple words. Soft tone.

“If you had the chance to see Empress again… what would you say?”

At first, I smiled. The kind of smile that escapes before your chest realizes how much it hurts to imagine.

For a second, I saw her. I felt her. I pictured myself running up to her, wrapping her in the tightest hug, and never letting go. The kind of hug that says, I’m sorry, I miss you, and please don’t go again, all at once.

And then, in my mind, I broke down — not just crying, but sobbing in that raw, uncontrollable way grief knows too well.

 

But when it came time to answer the question, I couldn’t. I stammered. My throat dried up. My words got stuck in a traffic jam of emotions I’ve never been able to fully explain.

 

Because how do you speak to someone who was your life, your calm, your person…
…when you know you only have a few minutes?

When you know this imaginary reunion is fleeting — that whatever you say has to last you a lifetime?

How do you fit everything you feel into one conversation?

I didn’t answer that day. I couldn’t.

But days later, I found myself awake in the middle of the night.
Alone in my room, sitting in the dark, I asked myself again — this time softly.

“Jaes… if you could see her again, just once… what would you say?”

And my heart remembered.
The first thing I said to her the day she died… the first and only thing I could say…

“Thank you.”

I remember being left alone with her body.
Wrapped in white. Still.
The hospital room felt colder than usual, like even the air had gone quiet.

And I broke.

I knelt beside her. I held her hand — even though it was already losing warmth — and I cried with everything in me.
And through all those tears, I kept whispering, over and over again:

“Thank you.”
“Thank you for 27 beautiful years.”
“Thank you for making life feel like home.”
“Thank you for every moment, every laugh, every fight, every hug.”

 

Funny enough, that was also the exact thing I said when I lost my dad. I was in the room with him too. Alone. And just like with Empress, I whispered, “Thank you.”
It wasn’t enough — not even close. But it was all I had.

If I had another chance — even for five minutes — I’d say it again.
Thank you.
For being the brightest light I ever knew. For carrying me when the world was too heavy.
For making me feel loved just by existing.

 

Then, I’d say the second thing that’s been aching in my chest since the day she left:

“I’m sorry.”

Not for something I did wrong… but for how cruel this world is.
I’m sorry that someone so kind, so full of life, had to leave so soon.
I’m sorry she didn’t get to grow old.

I’m sorry her body failed her while people who destroy the world get to live long, peaceful lives.
It’s not fair. It’s never been fair. And I’d tell her that I hate how helpless I was — how helpless I still am.

I’d tell her I’m sorry for every day I didn’t say “I love you” loud enough.
Sorry I couldn't take her pain.
Sorry she had to carry so much and still smile through it.

The third thing?

I’d look her in the eyes and say:

“I can’t promise I’m okay. I really can’t.”

Some songs still bring me to my knees.
Some scents make my chest tighten.
Some cities — places we used to go — I now avoid, not because I don’t want to remember, but because remembering hurts too much.

 

So no, I wouldn’t lie to her. I wouldn't smile and say, “I’m fine.”
Because I’m not.

But I’d promise her this instead:

“I’m trying… I’m still here. And I’m trying.”

Trying to wake up and breathe.
Trying to live a life that would make her proud — even on the days when I feel completely shattered.

Trying to write these words, hoping someone out there feels a little less alone because of them.

Because I know what she wanted for me.
She always wanted me to shine. To love. To live.
And if there’s a screen where she is — if she’s watching my story unfold — I want her to smile and say, “That’s my brother.”

And finally… if I had one last question to ask her, it would be this:

“Are you okay now?”

Not just okay — but free.
Free from the pain. Free from the hospital beds.
Free from the weight this world placed on her chest.

I’d pray — with every piece of what’s left of me — that she’d look at me with soft eyes and say:

“I’m okay, Jaes. I’m at peace. I’m happy. I’m waiting.”

That’s all I’d need.

Grief is brutal because it doesn’t ask for permission.
It breaks in and rearranges your soul.
But love — real love — never dies. It just finds new ways to stay alive.

If I ever get that chance to see her again…
I won’t waste a single second pretending to be strong.

I’ll cry, I’ll thank her, I’ll say I’m sorry.
And then I’ll ask her if she’s proud.

Because all I’ve ever wanted…
Was to be the kind of person she believed I could be.

For Empress, always.

— Jaes