There are words I carried for years like stones in my coat pockets — smooth from turning, heavy from silence.

I rehearsed them in empty rooms. I wrote them on napkins I threw away. I whispered them to the ceiling at 3 a.m., hoping somehow you'd hear.

You made the ordinary sacred. A Tuesday morning. A cup left on the counter. The way you said my name like it meant something you hadn't told me yet.

I should have said it then. Not at the end. Not in a eulogy. Not to a room full of people who already knew.

To you. While your eyes could still meet mine.