Mornings are the hardest. You’d think nights would be; getting into bed, trying to go to sleep but the thoughts of your departed loved one(s) swarm in your mind, keeping you wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

But I’ve found nights to be the only time for respite. I’ve been longing for the sunset these past five days. I never thought I’d resent the long British days, but here I am, wishing the sunshine away. Nighttime means I can crawl into bed and let the darkness take over without judgment. I exert so much effort during the day trying to stop myself from collapsing in the middle of the street in a puddle of my own tears, trying to put a smile on my face, say my please and thank yous, and appear strong in front of my husband, that by the time the dark sky comes around, I’m completely exhausted.

I also thought that asking someone who’d just lost a loved one “How are you?” was the most silly and insensitive thing you could do. But it’s not. It’s comforting. It tells me you’re thinking about me, and in turn, about her. It tells me she’s on your mind too. It tells me I’m not alone. I reply with “I’m okay” every time, both of us knowing that I’m not – not at all, actually. But your WhatsApp message was like a hand on my shoulder and a push to get through the next hour, and then the next and the one after that, until the next message.

I always thought that I couldn’t show weakness on a condolence call either. I thought I had to pull it together, say a few words and a couple of prayers, and hang up as quickly as I could. But my sister called me and we cried together over the phone, and that was the most comforting call I got. My friend sent me a minute-long voice note saying, “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling, you must be completely devastated,” and hearing someone else describe how I was feeling made me feel seen.

I remember travelling to see a friend who had just lost her father. I stayed with her for three days, thinking my mission there was to distract her as much as possible; draw her attention away from him for as long as I could. But there isn’t really anything that could distract the mind. I have had one continuous thought for the past five days. Don’t be fooled by the smiles and the small talk. Sure, they help too, of course. They force me to engage and be in the moment as much as possible. But underneath the words is a constant buzz of grief and denial and sadness and heartbreak, going round and round in an endless cycle. So what I should have done instead all those years ago was let my friend talk about her father. And maybe share my memories of him with her too. I should have told her how much he used to bring a sense of calm into the room, how I loved how little he spoke but how amusing and sarcastic he always was, and how sad I was when I heard of his passing. Talking about them helps. Sharing memories helps.

I lost my best friend and soul sister five days ago. And I’ve been losing her over and over again since then. My mind keeps dipping in and out of denial followed by realisation. And then it hits me all over again. She was my first friend. She was my chosen family. Writing about her in the past tense doesn’t feel real. It feels silly. We were always laughing; we laughed enough for ten lifetimes. So now, it feels unnatural to remember her with tears in my eyes that aren’t tears of laughter. I googled what her name meant earlier – I’ve been doing that a lot, Googling things trying to make sense of anything – and found it was Turkish for “Angel and bearer of happiness”, and oh, what a fitting name that was for her. It still doesn’t make sense. I don’t know if it ever will.

But talking about her helps. So talk about her. And don’t feel bad if it makes me cry; I promise every tear is a testament to the overflowing love I have for her. They’re the tears I had saved for the next time I saw her, and the next time she would make me cry with laughter.

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