A eulogy, for someone.

When I die, I hope no one comes to the funeral.

I want nothing grand, as I did when I was alive. No open caskets, no mourners gathered to grieve, no solemn faces recounting memories.

In life, I’ve often felt similar to an isolated street light. One that flickers every now and then, the occasional passerby basking under my transient glow; A man who had far too much to drink, a college teen escorting their friend, a mother who had done some late-night shopping, recounting her purchases; Passersby from all different walks of life, with one common trait: They leave. Again, the street light is alone.

Even as a child, a part of me always knew I’d be alone in the end. It’s no tragedy– just a truth I accepted early on.

I’ve taught myself to stop expecting things from other people, not because I thought they were inherently disappointing, but because I feared disappointment more than I valued hope; This belief in my insignificance has been both my armor and my cage.

I believed that our worst moments do not define us. Redemption, however elusive it may be, exists– not just for others but perhaps even for me; I was never sure if it was for me to cope with people and what they did wrong to me, or if it was for me to cope with what I have done wrong to them.

Maybe both.

Death has always been a quiet companion, not as a fear, but a reminder. My life was one defined by moments; Knowing that it is finite has taught me urgency– the importance of doing, feeling, being, even when it’s hard. Life’s value lies in its impermanence. And yet, the body, no matter how brittle, reminds us we are grounded in this world.

The ache of exhaustion, the warmth of an embrace, the sting of tears.

I’ve craved this connection while keeping others at arm’s length, sought meaning while doubting my worth, and yearned for freedom while fearing what it would demand of me.

Have I felt free? Not always. My choices have often been constrained by expectations, by the need to be more than I am, to be “something greater.” But in those rare moments when I felt truly free, it wasn’t because I escaped responsibility. It was when I chose to embrace it— to live not for the approval of others, but for the quiet satisfaction of knowing I’d done what felt true to me.

Still, even in freedom, I’ve never been an island.

My identity has been shaped by others in profound ways. I felt the weight of their gaze, their judgments, their expectations.

To my family, especially my mother, whose unwavering faith in me has been both a comfort and a burden— thank you. To my friends, who’ve seen me at my best and my worst and chose to stay— thank you. To those who challenged me, who forced me to confront my flaws and grow, thank you. Even in moments of isolation, I’ve never truly been alone.

I only ask one last thing from all of you.

Forget me.

In my last moments, please, rid yourself the burden of carrying my memory with you.

Let my departure be gentle, like a page in a forgotten book turned by the wind. Yet, if I’m being honest, there’s a contradiction in this wish.

A part of me yearns to be remembered, even as I tell myself it’s better to be forgotten. That contradiction defines much of who I am– a dance between wanting to matter and fearing the weight of being known.

But I know I can’t truly disappear.

Even in death, I’ll linger in the memories of those who knew me. And maybe that’s the truest form of immortality— to live on, not in grandeur or legacy, but in the quiet corners of someone’s mind. If you must remember me, let it be not for grand achievements or profound words, but for the small ways I tried to be kind, to be present, to matter.

In closing, I leave you with this: Life is not about being remembered. It’s about the moments we share, the love we give, and the courage to be ourselves— even when it feels like no one is watching. I don’t ask for mourning or for tributes.

Instead, I ask for you to live.

Live fully, love deeply.