His best friend lost his life and he lost himself

How do you survive the kind of moment no one else witnessed, but that changed everything for you?

Some stories you wish you didn’t have to tell. Because they’re too real. Too close. Too raw.

And yet I’m sharing this. Not only because I want to document it, but because I don’t want it to dissolve into oblivion. Because this wasn’t just ‘shocking news’; it was someone’s life.
And someone’s loss, a loss that’s still unfolding. Quietly. Invisibly. Heavily.

We’re sitting on our bed, where we spend 90 percent of our time.
“I don’t understand why it’s hitting me this hard.”
My brother M is in Mallorca. He was there with his best friend, on a long-awaited hiking trip. Slow hikes in the mountains near Sóller, something they’d been looking forward to for a while.

We heard the news from my mother. Suddenly, she began screaming and sobbing uncontrollably. She ran outside into the garden, needing to get it out, and shouted it toward our window, which is always open. We heard her clearly. She yelled, “C is dead!” And when I asked how, she said, “Because of the heat.” My first thought was: then M must be dying too, right? That’s how intense her reaction was. My mind was racing. But it was ‘just’ C. Just. As if that softens it.

C is gone…

Not long after, I called my mother. As you know, I never make phone calls. But this time, I had to. Just to try. Just to let her speak.

Heatstroke. Just like that. During a hike. A young man, still full of life. M saw it happen. He watched him collapse, saw him start to hallucinate, saw the paramedics trying to revive him. C’s body temperature had risen to 45 degrees and he was unconscious. Everything happened so fast.

Along the way, they had met a Dutch woman and an older German man, who tried to help. They had a cooling blanket. But it didn’t help. C died right there, in the ambulance. And M? He completely broke down. They gave him oxygen and sedatives. His body couldn’t cope. His mind couldn’t either. And yet he had to keep going. Had to call. Had to tell C’s parents.

He had to stay in Mallorca another day. Alone. In shock. Haunted by images that no one can take away from him.

I’m here. Far away. We’ve barely been in touch for years. But we used to be close. We played together, watched TV shows together and had an unspoken bond. But over time that changed. He started gaming more, the TV was always on, and for me, it became too much. The constant stimulation… I couldn’t take it anymore. When I met Mart and my life shifted, the contact faded. He moved out. And that was that.

Still, I sit here with a lump in my throat and a heavy weight in my chest. And I don’t understand why it’s affecting me so deeply. Or maybe I do. Maybe because we haven’t truly seen each other in so long. Because I know what it’s like to lose someone – suddenly, painfully, without warning. And this isn’t just a loss. This was his best friend. Not just one of many. The one person he could be himself with. The one he shared everything with. Someone who truly saw him. And now he’s gone.

They gamed together. Sometimes for hours. Not just for fun, but because it was the only place where his mind could go quiet. Where he could laugh, relax, escape. And I know he’s been deeply unhappy for years with how his life looks. A 9-to-5 job he never really chose. Sales work, even though he studied something entirely different: Safety Science, and last year, web design. After an internship, he stayed. Now he’s been there over ten years. Like he’s forgotten how to leave.

And now that one person is gone. The only one he could turn to. Who does he have now? Where can he put his grief, his jokes, his questions, maybe even his guilt? There’s no other place. No other anchor. And I fear he doesn’t know that either.

I know how dangerous it is not to face something like this. To bottle it up. To go on like nothing happened. And I know what that can do to a person. I’ve experienced loss, too. Four years ago. And I know it doesn’t go away when you ignore it. It lodges in your body. Becomes quiet grief. Invisible, but always there.

How do you go on when you leave for an adventure together but return alone? When you set out full of hope, and suddenly you’re the only one left? When everything is still fresh in your mind, but there will never be new memories made together?

I see it in my mind, and I feel it. Even if we barely speak anymore. I sent him a card. Not too emotional, not too distant. Just: If you ever want to talk, I’m here.

And me? I’m left here, swallowing tears. As if I don’t allow myself to feel. As if this isn’t my grief. But it is. Because life moves me. Because I see him, standing there alone. Because I feel what he maybe still can’t feel.

That evening, I called my mother again. After bedtime. But I couldn’t rest. The call didn’t last long. We went over what happened, and I kept affirming it was okay that her intense reaction came from realizing it could’ve been M instead of C. That realization is unbearable.

Because of everything she told me, and all that had happened, I couldn’t settle. It wasn’t until 12:30 that I found some rest and only because I was utterly exhausted.

And what I can’t stop thinking about now that he’s back home: how does he move forward with what he saw? Not just the loss itself, but those images. C collapsing, hallucinating, the icy realization that this was serious. The panic. The sirens. The resuscitation. The moment you know: this won’t end well.

You don’t just shake that off. It doesn’t disappear. It replays, over and over again. In your mind, in your body, in your dreams.

And what strikes me most: how quickly the world moves on. On Reddit, on Facebook… I see people speculating. That he was working out. That it was because of a vaccine. That it’s “just another news story.” And I feel this surge of rage. As if this only exists to form opinions, to make a point, and then scroll on.

But this can’t be captured in headlines or theories. This wasn’t a “fitness accident,” not a “vaccine debate,” not some content snack for scrolling eyes.

This was a boy. C. Someone’s best friend. Someone’s son. Someone’s everything.

And M saw it. Lived it. Carried it. And now has to live with it.

But the internet races ahead. Forces it into narratives, molds it into assumptions. And that hurts. Because this is not a debate. Not content. This is the truth. Someone died. And M lost his entire inner world that very moment. Something inside him cracked. And it won’t be glued back together.

Maybe this small act of resistance – this refusal to rush past it – is the only thing I can do right now. Just pause. Make space for what doesn’t fit into words. Because I do want to keep feeling it. And because I want M to know it’s not over. Not just something that happened. Even if the world is already somewhere else and all it has left to say is: “How awful,” before returning to business as usual.

But this isn’t ordinary grief. This is trauma, too. There’s no bandage on his head. No sling on his arm. Just images, silent grief, a body that’s frozen. And no one sees how heavy it is. Except maybe me.

As if I’m not allowed to feel. As if this isn’t my sorrow. But it is. Because life moves me. Because I see him, standing there alone. Because I feel what he maybe still can’t feel.

And that says something. About me. About how much is still living beneath the surface, despite everything. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I’m allowed to feel this.

I keep wondering… Why did they go hiking at that time of day, in summer, during a heat alert? In Spain, no one voluntarily goes out in the midday sun, let alone into the mountains. Even the locals avoid the heat. And my mother said: M and C both didn’t tolerate heat well. Then why? Why didn’t they read up on it? What heatstroke really is, how to recognize it, what to do at the first signs? Maybe they thought it would be fine. That water would be enough. Or that they’d take it slow. Maybe they just needed to do something together. To share something. To feel free. Maybe they didn’t want to be told what not to do, didn’t want to hear they should’ve gone to Norway instead.

But things turned out differently. And that keeps echoing in my mind. Because I want to understand. Because maybe it’s something I’ll never truly understand.

They say it was a heart attack. But how can you hallucinate with a heart attack? How does your body heat up to 45 degrees? Everything points to heatstroke and that’s something you don’t just get. And I can’t stand that even this moment is being redefined; maybe because “heart attack” sounds easier. Easier to understand. Easier to ignore. That something so painfully real and raw is being flattened into something clinical, something abstract. As if it wasn’t that bad. When he knows it’s not true. Not with what he saw. Not with what he has to carry now.

I grab a small bowl and walk to the garden. I pick every ripe blackberry I can find. My mother is going to see my grandma soon, where M will also be. There’s not much else I can do right now. But this… it’s something. Something small. Something real.

M.,

I’ve thought long and hard about whether I should write to you. Whether it’s appropriate. Whether you’d even want to hear from me. But sometimes there is no perfect way, only a sincere one.

What you went through can’t be wrapped in comforting phrases or well-meaning platitudes. You were there. You saw it happen. You tried to help, but there was nothing left to do. That’s a weight no one should have to carry and especially not alone.

I know we haven’t really been in touch for a long time. But I’m still here. And I feel more than I tend to show. These past few days, I’ve sat with a lump in my throat and a heavy heart. Not just for C, but for you. For what you now have to carry. What you can’t explain. Can’t unload. What settles into your body, your mind, your dreams.

Maybe you feel alone. Maybe the world already expects you to ‘move on’, to ‘pull yourself together’. But I hope you know you don’t have to. There is no deadline for grief. What you feel is real. Valid. And you don’t have to hide it.

I’m not here with answers. Just space. For not knowing. For silence. For anger. For crying. Or even for feeling nothing at all. Whatever it is: it’s okay.

If you ever want to talk about what happened, or about anything at all: I’m here. Not only as someone who understands, but as someone who will listen. Someone who can sit quietly with you, if that’s what you need.

From Je-zus

Now a week and a half ago, he lost his best friend during a hike. And now we’re about to go walking again ourselves. With our vehicle. Something we’ve been longing for so deeply, something that can be healing. But suddenly it feels heavy. As if I’m betraying him by going. As if my steps, my movement, my joy, are no longer allowed to exist while he stands still in grief.

But that’s not true. It’s exactly because I feel so deeply with him that I feel this conflict. And still; my life isn’t the same as his. I don’t walk despite what happened. I walk with that awareness in my heart. With M in my thoughts. With the weight of life as part of my pack. And that makes every step not emptier, but more meaningful.

I don’t have to feel guilty for still being able to walk. For being able to feel free again for a while. It doesn’t mean I care any less. It only means I’m alive. That I’m not frozen. And maybe I can carry something for him during those walks. Let something rest, that he can’t put down yet.

I’ll take you with me today. Not literally. But in everything I see. In the light on the path, the silence between the trees, the grounding strength of the earth beneath our feet.

I know what you carry. What you’ve seen. What you can’t forget.

And still I walk. Not to look away, but to take it with me. To carry something you can’t yet. To make space, where now there’s only pressure.

This is not escape. This is a tribute. To C. To you.
To everything that stays, even when nothing is the same.