Writers are not God. Why then do they get to take lives?

There is a kind of grief that blooms like a shadow at dawn—quiet, invasive, impossible to outrun.

It does not ask permission before settling into the ribs. It does not knock.

It simply arrives, heavy with the absence of someone who never walked this earth, yet somehow learned the language of your heart too well.

I think of Mariam, of the way her name feels like something fragile held between the teeth, careful, reverent.

From A Thousand Splendid Suns—she lived in ink, in paragraphs that bled softly into one another.

And yet, when she died, it did not feel like fiction at all.

It felt like something reached through the page, found me where I was most unguarded, and drove a dagger clean through my chest.

I remember pausing—no, not pausing, stopping—as though the world itself had faltered with her.

Time, in all its arrogance, had the decency to hesitate.

How does one continue reading after that?

How does one turn a page that has just buried someone as dear as her?

And still, the page turns, and she remains behind.

Then there is Auntie Morenike, from Daughters Who Walk This Path. I remember how hard I cried when I got to the part she died. It was as if my lungs were constricted and I could no longer breathe. 

Auntie Morenike did not belong to softness. She was survival itself—unrelenting, unflinching, a quiet violence of knowing too much about a world that does not forgive.

Loving her was not gentle. It was a slow education in grief.

She carried a truth that stains you—the kind that does not leave even when the book is closed.

And when the weight of her existence settles—when you realize the cost of being a woman who sees too clearly—it does not feel like admiration anymore.

It feels like mourning.

She lingers differently, not as a wound, but as a presence.

A watchful, unrelenting presence.

She does not die in the same way Mariam does; she settles into your bones slowly, a truth you wish you could unlearn.

And then I think of Gregor Samsa, from The Metamorphosis.

His death did not strike like lightning.

It did not tear through me like Mariam’s did. It did not hit me like auntie Morenike's. 

It settled instead, like dust in a forgotten room.

Nothing broke. Nothing paused.

The world did not hesitate. There were no trembling hands turning the page, no desperate wish to rewrite what had been written.

Only a quiet shameful stillness—as though his absence had been anticipated, prepared for, accepted long before it arrived.

Gregor’s death teaches a different kind of grief. The kind that does not scream, nor does it bleed,nor leave you gasping.

A grief that unsettles precisely because it feels light, almost inconsequential, yet unbearable in its subtle accusation.

Because somewhere beneath your own mourning, there is the unbearable awareness that the world he left behind seemed to exhale in relief.

And what do you do with that?

What do you do with a death that feels like a release—not for the one who died, but for those who remained?

There is something deeply unsettling about loving fictional people.

It exposes a vulnerability we pretend we do not have.

The heart does not care whether someone is real or not; it only cares that they were felt.

Once they are felt—truly, deeply, irrevocably felt—there is no distinction.

Loss is loss. Grief is grief.

A dagger does not ask whether the body it pierces is fictional.

It only knows the act of breaking.

So you break. Quietly. Disproportionately. Embarrassingly.

You carry it alone. Fold it into yourself like a secret.

Let it sit behind your ribs, heavy and unnamed.

Occasionally, when the world is too still, it rises—a line from the book, a memory of a scene, a sentence that refuses to loosen its grip.

And suddenly, you are there again, at the moment of loss, at the edge of that page. Watching it happen all over again. Just like the first time. 

There is no closure here.

No rituals. No condolences.

To everyone else, nothing happened.

But to you? Everything did.

And that is the quiet violence of it.

That is the grief that blooms like a shadow at dawn and refuses to leave.

It teaches you something unsettling: love is not bound by existence, and connection does not require reality.

The human heart is capable of mourning illusions with a sincerity that rivals any tangible loss.

And perhaps that is beautiful.

Because it means we are capable of feeling deeply, of reaching beyond ourselves, of seeing fragments of humanity in places where there is no breath, no pulse and no flesh.

But it is terrifying too.

Because it means we are never truly safe from grief—not even in stories. Especially not in stories..