A friend died last week. I claim an abundance of empathy, yet I can only write narcissistically. My entire collection of writing, every letter I jotted down, every verb, noun, and adjective, was an attempt to reflect myself, my perceptions, and no one else. My vocabulary, while occasionally vast and at other times severely limited, lacks any semblance of care for others.

A friend died last week. I sent him a voice note yesterday and told him that I was excited to be back in Riyadh to see him. When I woke up today, I saw a message that he had passed recently, with no further explanation. I wasn’t sure if it was his work phone or personal number or who responded. At first, I thought it was a sick prank from one of our insane coworkers because we always mess with each other without boundaries.

A friend died last week. He was a good man. I won’t pretend he was perfect—he had flaws like the rest of us—but he was a kind soul. I wonder if an unbiased observer or his loved ones would claim the same. During my first week, when I was an anxious mess, just starting consulting and unsure of my capabilities, he was the first person to sit with me and explain the entire project. Consultants are notorious for never having enough time, yet he dedicated a portion of his to ensure I had the right footing in this cutthroat industry. I owe him, among others, my success in the internship.

A friend died last week. Yet, as I write this and see the first sentence, I realize I somehow managed to make it about me. A good man is dead. He had just resigned and got a better job, was getting serious with his girlfriend, loved civilization, and was waiting for the new one to come out. His universe was unrelated to my own, and I played no significant role in his life.

A friend died last week. But I can only think of things in my own context. I first thought that he or someone else from the office was playing a prank. The second thought was that I would never get to hang out with him when I returned and hear his stories. The third was that he would no longer provide me with the professional guidance and support I had grown used to. Lastly, I wondered, since he was the same age as me, if it was something self-inflicted and if I could have been a better friend to him.

A friend died last week. Yet, reading back on what I just instinctively wrote, every paragraph is filled with “me” and “I.” His entire being evaporates in an instant; his soul leaves our plane of existence, and I can only think about how this will alter my life. Not his family, not his dad who lost a son, not his girlfriend who lost a partner, not his best friend who I instantly called to check if it was a prank or reality.

A friend died last week. And the extra irony-cherry on top is that while processing how I made it about me, I took it even further into my circle in the Venn diagram, to the point where his circle no longer touches mine. By extension, the self-hate grows into a lush forest that I planted, which I cannot escape.

A friend died last week. Yet I cannot love, suffer, hate, fear, dream, or even grieve for others unless there is a “me” involved.