The Man Who Died With Him

The man I was before May 29th is gone.

He died on that road, at that tree, in that early morning hour, right alongside Ryan. I know that much. That part I'm sure of.

What comes after... I have no idea.

Does the new Eric cry every day? Will he have no goals, no dreams, no reason to get up in the morning? Will he just stumble, day to day, no direction, no map? Will he long for his son every minute of every hour of every day, for the rest of whatever this is now?

I don't know.

I don't have a single answer.

I can't wrap my mind around any of it. I've tried. I sit with it and it just... slides off, too big to hold.

I'm scared. Terrified, if I'm honest. I have no control over what happens next. How could I? I used to think I knew, more or less, where my life was headed. Then in one instant, none of it was mine anymore. Nobody asked me. Nobody gave me a choice.

How do you stay hopeful about a future you can't shape? I don't know how to answer that either.

I can't see where this goes. I can't even picture it.

Some days I try to imagine myself a year from now, five years from now, and there's nothing there. Just static. A version of me I can't draw.

I hope, someday, I can come back to this and see some kind of progress. Some proof I moved, even an inch.

Today, I can't see my hand in front of my face.

I'm not surviving. Survival means fight, want, direction. I don't have those right now.

I'm just here. Existing. One breath, then the next one.

That's all I've got today. That's all I've had since May 29th, 2026.

It's not much. But it's honest.