Yesterday, I found out that my old classmate from middle school, Bogdan, had passed away the day before. I knew Bogdan from grades 7 to 9—he was a funny guy, not the best student, and rarely showed up to school. We didn’t have a deep connection, just some random school memories: like the time I spilled ink on his shirt, or when he shoved me into a group of girls like a bowling ball, or that one time he—a big guy—tripped on the stairs trying to chase me down. Or when we hung out at the mall food court with my ex-friend Egor, laughing until we couldn’t breathe while playing horror games on Roblox.

I never really tried to get to know him better—he seemed unclear to me, always hanging out with sketchy people. But about a year and a half ago, I started realizing he wasn’t just some dumb troublemaker. Still, there was one thing I didn’t like: he smoked—not cigarettes. He even got Egor into it, and I think Egor still messes around with weed sometimes. Bogdan also used to search for drug stashes, took whatever was in them—like mephedrone—or bought powders on purpose. Heavy stuff.

A year ago, I cut ties with Egor, who was once close to me (long story involving his girlfriend). She told me Bogdan had been whispering things like, "You shouldn’t talk to him," or "He’ll just blab everything to everyone." And because Egor and I were already drifting apart, that was it. We stopped talking.

And then we met again. A year later. At a goddamn funeral.

Yesterday, it all felt abstract—like, "Huh, he’s dead… okay, whatever." But then I thought I should go, pay my respects, see him off one last time. The cemetery was far, filled with graves of soldiers who died in the war. I stopped by the grave of my friend’s father, then went to the service.

About 40 people were there, all crying. Bogdan was lying there—his hair still that same bright red, but his skin was pale. The priest was chanting prayers, and you could feel the weight of grief in the air. It was hot. I stood there feeling… strange. Sad, but also detached. Like, "Yeah, it’s tragic he died young, but we weren’t close."

Egor was there too, saying goodbye, tears streaming down his face during the prayers. Despite all the nonsense he’d messaged me, my heart ached for him. He was my friend once, and Bogdan was like a brother to him.

At the wake, I listened to the toasts, sat across from Egor, and tried to show sympathy with my eyes—because words felt impossible. He wouldn’t even look at me. After two shots of vodka, I talked to his mom, passed on my condolences. I knew he was wrecked.

Because imagine this: Egor left his house to meet Bogdan in the park after Bogdan texted that he wasn’t feeling well. And then… he finds his friend just sitting on a bench, staring blankly at the sky. Lifeless.

I called a taxi, rode home a little drunk, feeling weirdly happy and numb. I’m alive. That’s good. Got home, scrolled through Instagram, played games. Then, nine hours after the funeral, it finally hit me.

"Oh shit… he’s really gone."

The full horror of it crashed down—how fragile life is, how sudden loss can be. All those deep, existential thoughts: "Why did it happen like this?", "He’s actually dead." All the grief everyone else poured out at the funeral finally reached me, delayed but just as crushing.

It’s terrifying. That illusion we all have—that death is "somewhere out there," not here, not now—shattered. Now he’s just… underground. A full stop at the end of every memory.

I never want to bury anyone again. Losing even a small connection like this breaks me—what if it were someone I truly loved? I’d just dissolve.

Life feels more precious now. But also… fuck. I don’t know. I’m crying as I write this.

Tomorrow will be a normal day. The sun will rise, we’ll eat breakfast, go about our lives. And he… will still be there.

Why?

Rest in peace, Bogdan. You were a good guy. My old classmate. That redheaded kid.