Last year, I wrote about my grief in shock.
This year, I write from inside grief’s silence.

A whole year has passed without you, Johnny.
At least that is what the calendar says.
But grief does not know dates. It does not move in neat lines. Some days I feel stronger. Some days, I feel like I am still standing on that Sunday afternoon, waiting for someone to wake me up and tell me none of it was real.

The world moved on.
That is one of the hardest parts.

People went back to work. New songs came out. Friends graduated. Birthdays came and went. Life kept introducing new moments as if yours had not suddenly stopped.

And somehow, life demanded that we continue too.

But there are days I resent how normal the world still feels without you in it.

I think of you constantly.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just quietly and endlessly.

You live in almost every part of me because you formed so much of me.

You were never just my younger brother. From the minute you were born, I felt responsible for you. Deeply responsible. Like your life had somehow become attached to mine. Six years apart, yet somehow we were like twins. We experienced life from our unique perspective. Everywhere I went, there was always this subconscious thought of you beside me. Even when you were not physically there, you were there.

You became my first instinct.

The first person I wanted to protect.

Scared to leave your hand in the mall lest you get lost.

You were the first person I wanted to make proud.
The first person whose happiness I genuinely felt was tied to my own.

Lately, I keep thinking about the nights we shared a room as kids.

Two boys with wild imaginations. Terrified of monsters. Terrified of darkness. Terrified of losing each other.

Every night after praying, we had our ritual.

“Goodnight, Johnny.”
“Goodnight.”
“Sleep tight.”
“You too.”
“I love you, Johnny.”
“I love you too.”

Every single night.

We insisted on it because, as children, we feared death. I definitely feared that one of us might not wake up. I feared losing you before I even understood what losing you would truly mean.

But then life tricks you with consistency.

Years passed.
Thousands of nights passed.
Morning always came.

And slowly, without realising it, I became comfortable with your existence. Comfortable with the idea that you would simply always be there. That we had time. That death belonged to old people and distant stories.

Then suddenly, violently, unbelievably, one Sunday afternoon, you were gone.

No warning.
No preparation.
No final conversation could ever be enough.

Just gone.

Sometimes I still struggle to connect the word “dead” to you. Because you were so alive. So full of ideas. So loud with your dreams and passions. Ever present. You carried energy into rooms. You carried light into people. Even now, it feels impossible that someone with that much life could simply disappear from the earth.

It is difficult reflecting on one year without you because so much of my foundation was built with you beside me.

We built dreams together. Entire futures together.

We imagined success. I imagined bringing you into rooms with me one day and proudly saying, “That’s my brother.”

We spoke about life with certainty. The beautiful arrogance of young people who believe time owes them tomorrow.

Now I look back and realise how fragile everything really was.

And yet, despite all the grief, despite all the anger, despite how unfair this feels, one thing remains true:

I still love you with the same fullness I always did.

Maybe even more now.

And lately, I have started understanding something difficult to explain. When I look back at my life, I know you were my first true love. The kind of love that shapes your entire emotional world before you even understand what love means. The kind that teaches you loyalty, protection, sacrifice and joy.

You were the first person I loved instinctively.

Maybe that is why losing you feels like losing part of my own history. Because you are present in nearly every important memory I have.

Every breath I take now carries some absence of you.
Every room feels incomplete.

Every step is difficult without you.
Every achievement is missing someone from the audience.

Life is emptier without you.

And writing this takes me right back to that Sunday. The sounds. The panic. The disbelief. The feeling that the world had suddenly split into two versions of itself:

The world before Johnny died.
And the world after.

I still find myself wanting to ‘summon’ you.
Wanting to send you something funny.
Wanting to hear you singing too loudly from another room.
Wanting to pick you up from school again, listening to that popular song ‘Johnny’ by Yemi Alade.

“Where is my Johnny…”

Back then, it was playful. Fun,

Now it has become the real question my heart asks every day.

Where are you, Johnny?
Where is my Johnny?

I ask it in quiet moments.
I ask it when something good happens.
I ask it when life becomes overwhelming.
I ask it when I see brothers together.

I ask it when I see your friends.

I ask it when I remember your mannerisms.
I ask it when I remember your laugh so vividly that for one second, it feels like you are still here.

And maybe grief is simply love with nowhere to go.

But I promise you this:

Your story will not end with death.

Your time on earth was short, but your legacy will not be. I will carry you forward for as long as I live. I will speak your name in rooms you never entered. I will make sure people know who you were. Your dreams will travel farther than your years allowed.

You will still impact lives.
You will still inspire people.
You will still be remembered.

Because some people leave the earth but never truly leave the people who loved them.

And Johnny, you could never leave me.

So wherever you are, I hope you know this:

I still say it.
Even now.

Goodnight Johnny.
Sleep tight.
I love you.

And somewhere deep in my heart, I still wait to hear:

“You too, I love you too.”

—David-Kratos