Grief, in many ways, resembles the multiverse of sadness (take that, Marvel). It’s the sensation of living in a lesser timeline—an alternate reality that you didn’t choose but are forced to inhabit. Grieving isn’t just missing the person; it’s missing the version of yourself that existed with them and the version they could have shaped. You mourn the life they could have had and the stranger you could have become in a different universe.
Since losing my best friend last year, I’ve been haunted by the paradox of daily existence. Every routine action—brushing my teeth, and drinking my coffee—carries an alternate reality. Would I do these things differently if he were still alive? Would I be scrolling through my phone or smiling at his latest text? Life, post-loss, feels like cycling through an unwanted, secondary universe, all while fantasizing about an escape to a brighter timeline where he’s still around.
Sometimes, the jealousy of the “other me” pushes me to live large. I try to shatter the portal between these universes, to live through the grand moments of cinema’s bereaved heroes. In the months after his death, I did what movie characters do in mourning—I spoke at his funeral, visited cemeteries, got drunk at his favorite bars, and even embarked on a solo trip we had planned together. It was my way of keeping him alive in my story, of grieving “the right way”—loudly, dramatically, like in the films.
During his 2.5 years of treatment, I wasn’t in denial of his fate, but I found solace in fiction that mirrored our grief. Movies like The Bucket List, about two men embarking on a world tour before their time runs out, inspired me to send my friend sunrise pictures from cycling trips. I even emailed him rough travel plans, not dismissing his mortality but respecting it. We both knew these were our “bucket list” trips, cramming a lifetime of companionship into a single month—Antarctica, New Zealand, Greenland. Yet, no such grand adventures happened. Instead, we stayed rooted in the quieter moments that became our real bucket list: the vending machine snacks at the hospital, the scrambled eggs he made me after remission.
Another film that stuck with me was Paddleton, where two best friends take one final road trip before one succumbs to terminal cancer. It wasn’t our exact story, but it was close enough to feel like we needed a last hurrah too. The film spoke to the mythologization of our bond, making me want big, important memories to sustain my grief. But no grand trips materialized. What remains are the subtle, unassuming moments of our journey—him joking about the sensitive gums from cancer treatment, our wordless breakfasts, the shared relief after a swim. These are the memories that linger.
If he were alive, I’d be living a completely different life. I wouldn’t be writing this, for one. But now, I realize, this is my primary timeline. My love for cinema once tricked me into believing in a different moment, but grief is also about detaching from that mythical timeline. It’s about accepting the tangible, incomplete person you are, right here, in this world.
When I finally took that solo trip, I found myself breaking down at an unmarked grave, realizing I could’ve been home, scrolling through memories, rather than chasing cinematic catharsis. I wasn’t living in some dramatic film, but in a quiet, ordinary grief. And perhaps, now, I’m finally okay with that.
Movies still help me cope, though. Recently, I watched The After, a short film about a man who becomes a ride-share driver after losing his wife and daughter. He silently drives passengers through their own lives, witnessing snippets of their realities, while processing his grief. His sadness isn’t epic, nor does it come with grand resolutions—it’s just there, ordinary and unresolved until he breaks down after a passenger hugs him. His multiverse collapses into a single universe, and he weeps out his wasted heart.
And sometimes, I do too. Alone at home, when my partner is out, or when a small reminder—like hearing someone say “go for it” as he used to—brings it all rushing back. I miss him, not the person I could have been with him, but the actual him. This is my timeline now, and I’m learning that the mountains of grief often make us forget the molehills of everyday life. Grief isn’t the grand myth we see in cinema—it’s the anti-cinema of longing. It’s the smallest things, the ones we often miss, that make the deepest impact.
