Some mornings, coffee tastes a little different. The steam curls up from the mug, but instead of waking you with comfort, it carries the weight of a friend’s grief.

In recent years, I’ve found myself watching dear friends walk through the unthinkable—saying goodbye to the person they thought they’d have forever with. The partner who shared their mornings, their private jokes, their silent glances across a room. And even though it’s their loss, it settles into my chest too, heavy and unshakable.

It’s strange, how grief changes the air between friends. There’s a new tenderness in the way we talk, a careful listening that wasn’t always there before. Sometimes, there are no words—just the presence of someone who knows the shape of your heart. Other times, there’s laughter in the midst of the sadness, remembering something only the two of them shared.

As we get older, this becomes a reality we can’t ignore. Loving people means someday, in some way, we’ll lose them—or they’ll lose us. It’s not something to fear, but something to honor. It’s a reminder to call now, hug longer, and say “I love you” without saving it for later.

So I hold my friends closer. I show up. I listen when they want to talk, and I sit in silence when they don’t. And when I pour that next cup of coffee, I send a quiet wish into the steam—that love, in some way, will always reach them.