One day, someone will skim through my life in a 300-word obituary, awkwardly mispronounce something at my funeral, and quietly wonder if the samosas were too oily. A few people will show up out of obligation. Some won’t make it because their dog got sick or a client meeting ran late. The people I loved will huddle around, say nice things, maybe even cry a little. And then they’ll go back to work, to errands, to Netflix. Not after months. Not even weeks. Sooner than I’d like to admit. That used to sting. Now, it feels strangely …
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