Death isn’t poetic. It’s a brutal mirror.

Most people live like it’s fiction — a rumour for later.

They build neat lives and safe timelines, pretending they’ve got time.

But some of us feel it every fucking day —

as breath on the back of our neck,

as weight in our chest,

as the reason we burn too hot to be held.

Some of us need death’s shadow to feel anything at all.

We scream louder. We love harder.

Not because we’re fearless — but because we’re already negotiating with the dark.

Already sitting in its waiting room, trying to write songs loud enough to keep the door shut.

And the truth is, most of us aren’t afraid of dying.

We’re afraid of being left behind.

Of watching it take someone we can’t live without.

Of surviving the silence after.

Because the worst kind of death

is not the one that takes us —

it’s the one that doesn’t.