Something about grief

I was walking down Oxford Road, in Manchester, on Sunday night, and I noticed a kid sat on the pavement. I turned to where he was looking, and I saw a Lakers jersey and a candle.

This is how I found out Kobe Bryant had died.

My heart broke for the kid on the pavement, grieving his idol.

Three years, five months and eight days ago, Tom Searle, the guitar player from Architects, one of my favourite bands in the world, passed away at 28 from skin cancer.

I will carry the twenty-first of August, 2016, the day the world found out, with me forever. I used to live in Brighton, and it was a bright, sunny day. I had finished work early. I went up to my room, brought my tablet down to the common area, inspired to write and have a quiet evening in.

I turned my phone on, saw the words "RIP Tom" plastered all over the screen, and my life changed forever.

I abandoned everything behind, grabbed my keys, and walked back outside. I paced up and down the streets of Brighton, from the beach to North Laine, all the way to London Road, a fruitless attempt at getting it out of my system, wishing every step to take the pain away. I stopped on the beach walk and sobbed. I ate a whole bag of crisps to myself and pet a dog named Augustus.

Nothing made anything any better.

Worn out, I called my brother to tell him, trying to make sense of it, and I asked him to buy a ticket for their upcoming show in Paris. I was already going to the one in London, it had been planned months before. Curled up in my bed, I cried to Memento Mori, and decided to add Oslo to my little tour adventure of sorts.

Oslo because I had always dreamt of going to Norway, Oslo because it would have been his birthday and I was lost.

I lived harder, made impulsive decisions, refused to miss out on any second of my life. This was the start of me giving every piece of my heart to this band. At the same time, for weeks, I cried every time his name was mentioned. I sat outside the Hippodrome in Kingston, breath short, because I had just watched The Xcerts dedicate There Is Only You to him, and it's a miracle I lasted the song without collapsing under the disco ball.

I tried to make sense of it, would have traded anything to have him back, poured my heart out at Architects shows, and tried to find some comfort along the way.

I will never forget the day I saw Architects headline Brixton Academy, in London, and, on stage, they spoke about it, they said how they wished he had been here to see this. A lone voice in the crowd shouted "he can see you", and my heart shattered.

I found love and support in strangers, because we cried together, processed it together, experienced the grief together. We cried in each others' arms and on each others' shoulders.

It's been three years, five months and eight days, and I still cry at every single Architects show I go to, a mixture of pride for the band who put themselves back together, my personal grief, and the loss of the hero who gave me my favourite band, not knowing he would change my life and countless others the day he started jamming in his basement with his twin brother, or however Architects came to life.

It's been three years, five months, and eight days, and there isn't a day he doesn't cross my mind, a phantom limb I'd give anything to have back, and I have processed it, but there is a piece of the puzzle of my world who will never be as bright as it used to be.

On Sunday night, I saw myself in the kid in the street, trying to comprehend the words he read on his phone, the words that changed his life forever. I saw myself in the contrast between the jersey and the candle, standing out in the street, and the banality of him sitting here, looking like he's waiting to be picked up after a show at the Academy. I saw myself in the pain on his grief-stricken face, the fight against the tears.

My heart hurt for the kid in the street, the kid with the Lakers jersey with Kobe Bryant's name emblazoned at the back and the candle in the glass cup, the kid whose existence will never be the same again.