For James

Losing your oldest and dearest bestie to addiction, the broken empty grief

For James

They say addiction is a thief,
but they don’t tell you
how quiet it can be.

It didn’t kick the door in.
It didn’t shatter windows.
It just sat beside you, James,
whispering comfort
that came with chains.

You were laughter that filled rooms,
the kind that made strangers turn
just to feel part of it.
My bestie.
My person in the chaos.

I remember the way you’d say my name—
like it meant something solid.
Like I was home.

And then the slow fade began.
Missed calls.
Hollow eyes.
Promises that trembled
before they broke.

I tried to love you louder than it.
Tried to be stronger than the pull.
But addiction doesn’t fight fair—
it rewires hope,
makes poison feel like relief.

The hardest part?
You were still you
somewhere in there.
Still kind.
Still funny.
Still my James.

But the tide kept dragging you
farther from shore,
and I stood there screaming
into a storm
that wouldn’t answer back.

Now I carry you
in stories and songs,
in the quiet moments
when the world feels too heavy.

Grief is love
with nowhere to go.
So I send it to you—
past the ache,
past the anger,
past the what-ifs.

I hope wherever you are,
your hands are steady.
Your mind is clear.
Your heart is finally at peace.

And if love can cross
whatever distance this is—
know this:

You were never just
another loss.

You were my best friend.
And I will miss you
for the rest of my life.