I know this is gonna sound real messed up, especially given everything, but like… I just made myself dinner. For one. And it was just… quiet. And I’m not saying I didn’t miss him, because I did, of course I did. My grandpa, you know? The whole reason this kitchen has been a revolving door of people for like, my ENTIRE life. But it was also… quiet. And it felt weird to even think that, let alone type it out. Like, who says that? But it’s true. And the whole time I was chopping the scallions, which like, used to be his favorite part, I kept thinking about how usually this kitchen is like a madhouse. My mom yelling, my aunties talking over each other, someone always asking for more rice, the little cousins running around like maniacs. It’s always been like that. So much noise. So much… family. And tonight, it was just the sizzle of the pan and me, trying not to burn the garlic again. Which I almost did, obviously, because my mind was just… everywhere. My grandpa, he’s, you know, not doing so good. And it’s been a lot. A LOT a lot. Weekends spent at the hospital, trying to coordinate schedules with my cousins who are all impossible, getting yelled at by my mom for not calling enough. And then work, like I have to pretend everything’s fine, right? Big presentation next week, gotta keep smiling and nodding in meetings while my phone is buzzing every five minutes with updates about… well. You get it. And it’s just this constant pressure cooker. And I feel like a BAD person even admitting that it’s hard. Because it’s about him, not me. But then I sat down, finally, with my little bowl of whatever I threw together, and it was just… still. And I almost cried, but not even for the reason you’d think. Not because he’s sick, though that’s awful too, of course. But just because it was so… still. And for a second, I just wanted to just sit there and not have anyone ask me anything, not have to explain why I didn’t do the dishes yet, not have to pretend I’m fine when I’m not. Is that horrible? To just want a little space, even now? I feel like I’m going to get a performance review on my grief or something. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say, really. Just that it’s complicated, I guess. Like, I love my family, I do. But sometimes it’s like… too much. And then something happens, and suddenly there’s less, and you still feel guilty for feeling anything other than sad. It’s just… a lot. And I’m just here, eating my lukewarm noodles, wishing I didn’t feel like such a jerk for thinking it.