Since that night, I’ve been moving through rooms full of echoes, of laughter that no longer exists, of ghosts that sit silently in corners, waiting for me to notice them. I don’t live anymore. I exist. Barely.
Before that rainy October night, life felt so simple — or at least, so complete. I thought I had everything figured out.
Mark and I met in college, and our first encounter was nothing short of disastrous, set against the unlikely backdrop of a cooking class where the simplest task — making scrambled eggs — turned into a miniature catastrophe when he accidentally set off the fire alarm, sending smoke curling into every corner of the room and causing a chain reaction of panicked students and frenzied instructors.
I laughed so hard that I almost cried, clutching my notebook for balance as tears streamed down my cheeks, and in that moment, amid chaos and alarm bells, a connection was forged — one rooted in humor, in the ability to find joy in imperfection, in a shared understanding that life was far too short to take itself seriously.
By some improbable twist of fate, that chaotic, smoke-filled room led to our first date, during which we recounted the calamity, still laughing over burnt eggs, and over the years, that laughter became the foundation of everything we built together, persistent and bright, until it was interrupted in ways we could never have foreseen.
We built a life together, a life that was both ordinary and extraordinary in its chaos:Continue reading…
