My friend asked me out of the blue this morning about the girl I lost some years back and for a heartbeat, I couldn’t even remember her name. Thirty seconds felt like an eternity as I searched my mind, and when it finally came to me, my chest tightened so hard I thought I might collapse. I got back to my hostel and buried my head into my pillow and wept, the weight of forgetting the name of the person who saved me pressing down like a lead blanket.

Similoluwa was everything. EVERYTHING. She pulled me out of my darkest pit and led me, hand in hand, into the light. She was your definition of perfect; beautiful, brilliant (top of our class), and kinder than anyone I’ve ever known. She invested in her friends with her whole heart and gave endlessly of herself. And through it all, she loved me.

At a time when I believed I was broken beyond repair, Simi held me together. She was never ashamed to say it: she loved me. And I believed her, so much that I took it for granted. I convinced myself we had forever, that there would always be time for another laugh, another conversation, another tomorrow. But cancer — Hodgkin’s Lymphoma — stole her away just as quickly as she’d come into my life.

Now, four years later, I’m still searching for another Simi, and I’m realizing that my indifference toward new relationships is a shield I fashioned after her death. For more than a year, I shut everyone out. Friends, fun, life itself and I teetered on the edge of a pit deeper than any I’d known before. A single friend’s persistence dragged me back from the brink, but even now I flit from connection to connection, never committing, always nonchalant.

Maybe I’m punishing myself for the final fight we had, the stupid argument that kept me from her when she needed me most. I blame myself so deeply that I sometimes think a tattoo of her name over my heart isn’t enough to keep me from forgetting her again.

Oyedele Similoluwa: four years after your death, you still live in every beat of my heart, and I will always, always love you.

In the years since, I’ve built walls around my heart: walls of distraction, of jokes tossed out to mask the ache, of casual flings that never stuck. But those walls don’t protect me they simply echo with the ghost of her laughter. Every time I hesitate to commit, I hear Simi’s gentle voice reminding me what real love looks like, and I wonder if I’ll ever be brave enough to let it in again.

Still, somewhere between the tears and the late-night memories, I catch myself smiling. Because grief, as much as it hurts, also means I loved deeply. It means I was lucky enough to have someone extraordinary cross my path, even if only for a moment. And while the shadow of her absence will always linger, so will the light she left behind.

So, I carry on, sometimes faltering, often heartbroken but guided by the memory of her kindness, her brilliance, and the way she loved me when I needed it most. And maybe that’s enough: to live in a way that honors her, to let my heart break open just a bit more each day, and to believe that, in carrying her name within me, I keep her spirit alive.

In the end, grief isn’t a pit to climb out of, it’s a path that reshapes you. And on that path, I choose to walk forward, step by trembling step, with Simi’s light lighting the way.