He let go of my hand for a second.

A calm day, a calm river

The river seemed calm that afternoon - silent, almost lifeless, like a mirror stretched out under a fading sky. But I have come to learn that the water is still the highest. We had no idea that the river could deceive us.

It was a short family trip, unplanned like most of our little adventures. My little sister Alia loved the water. She would beg and pester until our parents gave in, and they always did. She was sunshine wrapped in mischief — 8 years old, always barefoot, always with river stones in her pockets, always trusting.

The Last Race

The sun was unusually kind that August day. The village was hosting its annual cattle fair, and my father stopped to look at some of the cattle, leaving me in charge. Aaliyah and I made our way to the riverbank as usual. She ran forward, laughing, arms outstretched like wings.

“Run you to the water!” he shouted.

“Stop—!” I screamed, but it was too late. She was already there, shoes off, tiptoeing in the current. I joined her, holding her hand tightly. We shouldn’t have gone too deep. The river had claimed the first people. But we were standing in the shallows, no deeper than our ankles.

Dragonfly

Then, she saw a dragonfly.

It skimmed the surface like it belonged there—blue and silver and too beautiful to chase. It tugged on my arm. I wouldn’t let go.

“Let me go, just for a second!” she said, trying to break free.

“No, it’s not safe.”

“But please! I just want to hold her.”

She looked at me with those eyes—the kind of love only a little sister can give. That impossible mixture of trust and innocence and pure conviction that the world wouldn’t hurt her because she hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

I hesitated. A second, I thought. Just one.

I let go.

Gone.

She ran forward—maybe two steps. That was all it took.

A slip. A scream. And then… nothing.

The river swallowed her as if it had been waiting. I swam in after her, heart pounding, lungs barely catching air between panicked screams. The current was stronger than she was—ice cold and merciless.

But she was gone. Gone. No bubbles. No cries. No sign. Just silence.

I called her name until my voice broke. The villagers ran and searched for hours. The next morning the divers from the city came. But it was too late. The river never returned her.

That one second stretched across a lifetime.

Fifteen years of “what ifs.”

Fifteen years of “what ifs.”

What if I hadn’t let go?

What if I had held on to her tighter?

What if I had shouted louder, warned her harder, been more of a brother?

I visit the river every August. People think it’s for closure. But I know better. I come back because some stupid part of me is still waiting. Still believing that maybe the water will give her back. Maybe she’ll rise from the river like a miracle, dragonfly in hand, laughing, “Got it!”

But miracles don’t happen in places like this.

Rituals of grief

I talk to her occasionally—whispering through gritted teeth and moist eyes. I bring her her favorite candy. I throw it into the current like an offering.

I know it's ridiculous. But grief makes us all children.

My mother never spoke of that day again. My father grew silent, thin. He blames himself. So do I. But deep down, I know that it all weighs the most on me.

I let go.

Just a second.

And that's all it took for life to end.

The reason I don't swim

People ask why I don't swim anymore. Why I avoid rivers, lakes, even springs. Why I freeze at the sight of waves. I just say, "I'm not a water person."

But the truth is, I once trusted someone I loved in the water.

And he never returned it.