Until We Meet Again

Author’s note: Apologies if this doesn’t come across as coherent—it’s not meant to. It’s just me, finally having the chance to put this out there after holding it in for so long.

Have you ever met someone who unexpectedly stumbled into your life, left a lasting impression, and then disappeared before you had the chance to say or do anything?

I have.

We meet people in the most unexpected places—that’s how our encounter began. At first, I kept my distance. That’s what I do when faced with someone so radiant, so effortlessly perfect.

I used to wonder—how does someone find the time for so much? An oncology fellowship, soccer, orchestra, an academic lecturer, a model, an artist, the family business, and even managing leadership roles across multiple gaming platforms?

She one of the gentlest and kindest souls I’ve ever met—always soft-spoken, never raising her voice, even when we teased and bantered with her.Though, I suspect there were moments when we nearly pushed her patience to its limit. Almost being the keyword.

Once we started talking, our bond grew quickly and effortlessly. Despite the age difference—she was three years my senior—they naturally fell into the role of an older sister, offering guidance and support when I needed it most. Whether it was work struggles or personal challenges, she was always there, a constant source of reassurance. Her wisdom came not just from experience, but from a deep, genuine desire to help me navigate the complexities of life.

She taught me how to approach obstacles with patience, how to manage stress, and how to find balance during times of uncertainty. But more than that, she became a safe harbor in moments of doubt, always offering a listening ear and words of comfort when things felt overwhelming. Even in our virtual world, she had a remarkable way of making everything feel just a little bit easier, a little less lonely. Through every late-night chat, through every shared laugh and vulnerability, she proved to be more than just a friend—she was a guiding presence, steady and unwavering, at a time when I needed it the most.

I remember the day they told me she was leaving the game, and the chatting platform we had been using to stay connected. My heart sank, shattering with the weight of her words. She said she wanted to take time to be with her family, but at that moment, I didn’t grasp the significance of it. It was the first hint she dropped, and I failed to pick it up.

I asked them if she would ever come back, even if it was just to chat. She told me no. Then, sensing the disappointment in my voice, she added, “Perhaps, one day, if I have the chance.” That was the second hint.

Two weeks later, she messaged me again, telling me she was leaving the game for good. But she reassured me, saying someone would take over her account to check in on us… on me.

I returned to the server where we first started out on the game. She bid her farewell to us—a long, teary goodbye—before the account was handed over within the minute. The transition was swift, yet it felt like the end of an era.

The person who took over the account was her cousin, and through them, I still received updates on how she was doing. It was through this handler that I found out—she had cancer. It was a recurrence. The news hit me like a wave, the weight of it sinking in slowly, a harsh reminder of how little time we often have to say the things that truly matter.

But she had never told me anything herself, and the handler made it clear that she didn’t want anyone to know. So, I kept quiet, cherishing every single chance she would still appear to chat, no matter how brief the moments were. I had to pretend like nothing was amiss, like she wasn’t really going to disappear from our lives for good the next time she logged off. It was a delicate balance—holding onto the connection while knowing, deep down, that it was slipping away.

She never showed her vulnerability to us, not even to her family. She was always the strong one, never once complaining or saying she wanted to give up. She carried herself with a quiet strength that made it hard to imagine anything could truly break her. It was part of who she was—unyielding, even in the face of the hardest battles.

For a while, things seemed okay. She was undergoing treatment, receiving the medical care she needed, and for a brief moment, it seemed like she might actually win. There were small signs of improvement, moments when it felt like the worst was behind her. We all held onto that hope, even if we didn’t say it aloud. She was stronger than any of us, and maybe—just maybe—she could defeat it. But even in those fleeting moments of optimism, there was an unspoken understanding among us all that the battle was far from over. Yet, we allowed ourselves to believe in the possibility of her victory, because she had always been our pillar, our unwavering force.

I remember the last time I ever chatted with her, and that day, I saw so many different sides of her. There was the academic side, the doctor in her, the passionate gamer, the loving sister—and beneath all of that, I saw her as just the person she truly was.

I think, deep down, she knew her end was near. She spoke to me about her will, her worries for the future, things she hadn’t shared before. I sensed she knew that I was aware of her condition. Why wouldn’t she? She was one of the most perceptive people I had ever known, able to read between the lines and understand things without them ever being said aloud. She had always been able to see right through me, and in that moment, it felt like she could see through the silence that had lingered between us.

She was gone not even three weeks later.

I woke up in the middle of the night, an uneasy feeling nudging me to check the game and Discord. I saw the name change on the account, from the handler’s back to hers, something that had happened in the past few months whenever she would return. My heart leapt, and for a fleeting moment, I thought—maybe, after three long weeks, she was finally coming back.

But then, my hopes were crushed when I saw the profile picture. It had been changed to a candle—on both her account and her handler’s. A quiet, somber symbol that sent a chill through me. It was the confirmation I hadn’t wanted, the one thing I couldn’t deny.

I told myself it was just a dream, that when I woke up, things would be alright. That somehow, when morning came, this unbearable weight would be lifted, and she’d still be there, just as she had been before. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the case.

When morning came, I logged into the game again, hoping for something different. But as I opened the screen, I saw it—numerous young bases sprouting around our alliance, all bearing the same somber image of the candle. The world chat quickly filled with condolence messages, each one a sharp reminder of what I had hoped wasn’t true.

I couldn’t deny it anymore. The weight of it hit me all over again, the finality of her absence sinking in with every word that appeared on the screen. It was real. She was really gone. And this time, there was no waking up from the nightmare.

The pain… the sadness that overwhelmed me was all-consuming. I can still remember it so vividly, like a raw, unrelenting wave crashing over me. It wasn’t just the loss; it was the finality of it all, the crushing weight of knowing I would never hear from her again, never see her log on or share another moment. The tears came in waves, relentless and unbidden, flooding my face without mercy. I couldn’t stop them. They flowed endlessly, each one carrying away a piece of the person I had known, and with each tear, a deeper part of me felt like it was being lost as well. The grief settled into my chest, heavy and suffocating, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t escape it. It felt as if the world around me had been frozen in place, leaving me stuck in this unbearable moment, unable to breathe, unable to move on.

I carry a lot of regrets with me, things I’ll never be able to undo. Unspoken words, unshared feelings—so many moments that passed without being said. There’s a weight to it, a constant reminder of all the things I left unfinished, things that will forever remain that way. I never had the chance to tell her how much she meant to me, how much her presence had shaped my world. Now, those words are trapped inside me, a quiet ache that grows with each passing day. And no matter how much time goes by, I know those things will never be resolved, never be made right. It’s a lingering, painful truth that will follow me, always.

My only consolation? The handler told me she knew that I had known. The reason she had never said anything, the reason she continued to keep her struggles to herself, was because she knew her time was limited—borrowed, really—and she didn’t want to make things harder for me when the time came for her to leave. It was selfless, as always, just like she had been her entire life. She didn’t want to burden me with the weight of her illness, didn’t want me to carry that knowledge alongside the friendship we shared. But for once, I wished she could have been selfish. I wished she had let me in, let me share the burden with her, so that maybe, just maybe, we could have faced it together. The selflessness that made her who she was also kept me at a distance when I needed to be closer than ever. It’s a painful truth, and it’s one I’ll carry with me forever.

She had known of my inner turmoil, of the feelings I had buried deep within me, even when I was still blindly walking through it all, convinced that I only saw her as a sister. But in the time I had known her, something more had blossomed, something that grew slowly, quietly, until it was undeniable. It remained buried, tucked away, because I didn’t know how to face it, how to admit that what I felt for her went beyond friendship. And yet, somehow, she had sensed it. Maybe she had always known, even when I was too afraid to acknowledge it myself. When that moment came, the weight of it all—my hidden feelings and her selflessness—crashed down on me. I had loved her in a way I couldn’t put into words, and now, all I had left were regrets for never telling her, for never letting her know before it was too late.

In their own way, the handler tried to give me closure, hoping it would help me heal. They shared snippets of memories, little glimpses of who she was—how she laughed, how she cared, how she lived. They sent me some of her artwork, pieces of her soul captured in colors and lines, and music that had been part of her world, things that reflected the person she had been. These small offerings were like threads, weaving together a tapestry of who she truly was, helping me hold onto her even though she was no longer here. It wasn’t enough to erase the pain, but it was enough to offer me comfort, a way to keep a part of her alive, and in time, it gave me the space to heal—slowly, piece by piece.

May we meet again.

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