It was April, I think. Maybe May. Definitely a Monday.
I woke up with absolute certainty: today is my last day on Earth.
No drama, no fanfare. It was just... a fact.
I woke up knowing I would die, as certain as knowing the coffee is about to run out. It was just something that would happen.
And I wasn’t scared. Death felt as natural as breathing (I know, it’s a cliché) or the next blink of an eye.
I thought: “It’s today.” And that was fine.
I looked over and saw my daughters sleeping. We were crammed into a tiny Airbnb because I didn’t have any furniture to move into a house yet. The two of them were sharing one of those beds with a trundle tucked underneath, the kind that doubles as a couch during the day. I don’t even know the name of that thing. But it worked—for watching TV, eating meals, and sleeping.
My heart filled with love as I looked at them.
It was an incredible feeling. Truly incredible.
I didn’t wake them up.Yes, I looked at them, certain it was the last time I’d see them, but if, by that day, they didn’t already know how much I loved them, a rushed goodbye wouldn’t change anything.
It was a strange feeling, but it was true: I didn’t fear carrying regrets into eternity. My daughters know. They know how much I love them. And in that moment, that was enough.
And if I must take a regret or two with me to eternity, let it be this one—the regret of not staging a soap-opera-worthy farewell.
I got up, put on my headphones, and went to work out. Because yes, I was going to die, but just in case I didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt to keep my squats in check.
Priorities, right?
On my way there, I sent a few messages. Nothing dramatic, nothing like “Oh my God, I love you, goodbye.” Everyone already knows that. It was more practical stuff. The book is almost done, the other one can be published whenever it’s ready. Things like that.
My oldest daughter, at 19, already knows everything: life insurance, bank accounts, all the boring details that fall to someone when a person dies. If I was really going to die, there wouldn’t be much left to explain. Just a few last-minute wishes—like that book I swore I’d finish and, well... maybe wouldn’t.
There was only one person, a friend, to whom I decided to tell “the truth.” I did it on my way back from the gym. Maybe I just needed to tell someone I was going to die, and I knew he wouldn’t freak out.
I grabbed my phone, pointed the camera at myself, and said:“So... I’m gonna die today. Do me a favor and...”
And then? I don’t even remember what I asked. I know I said I loved him and told him to save that video because, if I did kick the bucket, it might be worth some money. Why not try to profit a little from my death?
He, of course, didn’t disappoint. He watched the video and replied as I expected:“Thanks for thinking of me on your deathbed. But let’s be honest, the month was already a bust if you didn’t think you were going to die at least once.”
Which is wildly unfair because I’m pretty sure that had never happened to me before.
Anyway, with all my death arrangements made, there wasn’t much left to do but live the day.
So I worked out, worked, had dinner, and loved my daughters a little more.
Death ignored me. And I, who thought I was ready for it, stayed alive, wanting one more day.
The curious thing about that day was that, even with the certainty that the end was near, life carried on.
And maybe that’s it. Maybe dying really is like breathing, like blinking, like buying another pound of coffee.
One day it just happens.
And until then, we squat.
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