The Last Good Day

The sun was warm that morning. Not too harsh, not too soft — the kind of light that slips through curtains and makes you believe the world is kind.

That was the day.

The last good one.

And we didn’t even know it.

We made breakfast together, dancing lazily between the stove and the sink. You were still in your old t-shirt with the faded letters, the one I always stole. I burned the toast — like always — and you laughed, that breathless laugh that lived somewhere between joy and disbelief.

You kissed me anyway, tasting burnt crumbs and forgiveness.

It was a Saturday. The kind with no plans, no noise, no urgency. Just us, in the gentle rhythm we had learned to move in — like waves in sync, like hearts that knew the shape of each other.

We went walking downtown. You pointed out dogs you wanted to adopt, books you wanted to read, lives we could maybe live. I remember how you held my hand like it was your anchor — not tightly, just certainly. Like I was something you didn’t need to question.

We bought coffee from that little shop on 5th — the one with the crooked sign and the sleepy-eyed barista. You made a joke about how the espresso tasted like regret. I told you I’d drink regret if it meant hearing you laugh again.

I remember that.

We sat by the river, watching strangers pass. You leaned your head on my shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, and I wanted to freeze time. Because everything in that moment felt right. Safe. Whole.

But time doesn’t freeze.

It races.

By evening, we were home again. Wrapped in blankets. Watching the same movie we’d seen a dozen times because you said comfort mattered more than surprise.

I didn't know it then — but that was the last time you fell asleep in my arms.

The last time I kissed your forehead and felt your breath rise and fall.

The last time the world felt unbroken.

Because the next morning, the call came.

And everything… changed.

They said accident. They said too quick. They said nothing anyone could’ve done.

But none of their words made sense, because the day before —

you were here.

You were laughing.

You were alive.

I keep going back to that day. The last good one.

Not because I want to get stuck in it —

but because I want to remember every second,

before the world tilted sideways.

I remember the sound of your shoes on pavement.

The way you leaned into me when the wind picked up.

The look you gave me when I wasn't looking at the camera — only at you.

The smell of rain that never came.

I remember that for one whole day, we had no idea what was coming.

And maybe that’s the miracle.

That we loved fully, loudly, and gently —

even without knowing we were standing at the edge of goodbye.

People ask what grief feels like.

It feels like walking through that day again and again,

knowing how it ends,

but still hoping —

just once —

it doesn’t.

But there’s beauty, too.

In remembering.

Because the last good day?

It was real.

It was ours.

And nothing can take it away.

So I carry it with me, tucked in the quiet corners of my chest.

The laughter, the coffee, the wind, the burnt toast.

Your hand in mine.

The weight of love before the weight of loss.

And when the nights get heavy,

when I miss you too much to sleep,

I go back there —

to the last good day.

And I whisper to the memory of you:

"Thank you."