I was 11 years old when I learned that some goodbyes come too early.
She wasn’t just my friend—she was my childhood. We played together, laughed together, shared secrets that only children understand. Even when she was sick, I never fully understood how serious it was. To me, she was just *her*—strong, smiling, always trying.
We were both excited to enter **JS1** together. It felt like a new chapter, something we had been waiting for. New uniforms, new classes, new dreams. But she never got to live that chapter.
She died from **Sickle Cell (SS)**.
I remember the confusion more than anything. How someone I talked to yesterday could be gone today. How the world kept moving when mine had suddenly stopped. At 11, I didn’t have the words for grief—I only knew absence. Her seat was empty. Her voice was gone. And something in me changed forever.
That was the first time I understood that life isn’t always fair, and love doesn’t always get enough time. Losing her taught me empathy at a young age. It taught me to be gentle with people, because you never know the battles they’re fighting quietly.
Till today, whenever I see children starting secondary school, I think of her. Of the JS1 she never got to experience. Of the friend I never got to grow up with.
Some people don’t stay long—but they leave marks that last a lifetime.