A friend confided bits about her personal relationship a few months ago. She explained something about growth and problems afflicting our partners and how she found herself to be in the same still water with him, where he was years ago when she first met him. It reminded me of me, a personal attack without her intending for it to be. 

I digress (a trouble I've been frequently writing about), but that night, just before going to the hospital, with his back towards me, he had asked, what was I up to with my life? 

In a motion of complete defense, I answered vaguely about trying to find work and working from home. He was just as unconvinced with my response as I was in concocting it, an ability he has passed on to me to gauge the effectiveness of another person's lie without calling them out.

"How far are you with the PhD?"

"It will take some time, 2-3 years I get started now with writing."

"You should complete it."

"I intend to. Definitely in the coming year."

I had lied with complete conviction; for one I was concerned about his health and not wanting to start with anything while he was in pain and in the hospital and for the second, I was convinced he's delirious. 

I reflect back on that moment a lot, especially now that I find myself with all the time in the world and fewer deadlines. We exchanged perhaps 3-4 sentences after that, of his distrust with the hospital and the rest was me trying to convince him to go. 

Six months preceding his death, he would tell us all how he'd fetch his death certificate during the subsequent trip, one he kept stalling until he couldn't anymore. 

We'd point to the inadequacy in his argument, "If you do indeed die, how do you intend on picking your own death certificate?"

He would make a face and somehow the conversation would move in circles.

A month after his demise when I went to pick up his death certificate, it reminded of me how somehow his premonition had been true. He gave me the identity I have, the name I carry and I am known by. He lives on in me, with my self and it was him who went to the hospital to pick up the paper that announced his lack of enthusiasm for life. 

I wish I could just go to sleep and wake up, the way I would before I had been afflicted by severe trauma and grief. I am sick of being tired and angry and sad and utterly hopeless. 

All I want is to be loved and only by those I love back. Nobody else will do. 

I just want to be able to sleep without overthinking shit and hating myself more than anyone else in the world is capable of doing. 

We restart the PhD seminar tomorrow, and for the first time in months, I'm actually looking forward to returning to something, anything. I have a feeling it's to make up for something I told a dying man at the cost of my sanity and for the sake of comforting. I will probably hate myself in the seminar some more but I suppose not as much as I would if I don't actually see this till the end of it. 

I miss him so much and I wish I could just hold his hand and tell him that.