December 12th, 2014. That was the day he died. I didn’t learn of it until the next day when my dad called my mom to tell her his dad had died. It wasn’t a surprise to them, but it was to me. Both of my parents had known for months that he had a deadly lung disease, and that he was going to die. But they chose not to tell me until two days before he died, and those two days were the beginning of the four hardest years of my life. I never got the chance to say goodbye to my grandpa, when I could’ve and should’ve had months to do so. I never even told him I love him, and it kills me every day. Normally, when I regret something, I regret the words I said or the actions I made. But now, I regret the words I never said, the actions I never made. I would give anything to see him one last time, to tell him how much I love him and miss him. But I don’t have that option, and I have to live the rest of my life with the guilt of things unsaid.

Nearly four years have gone by since then, but it still hurts as if it were only yesterday. I hide this from my family, I don’t want them to see how much it hurts me. Although I know it’s unfair of me, I can’t help but be angry at my parents for not telling me sooner about his disease; they robbed me of precious moments. There are tears still begging to be let out, and I let them fall when no one else can see, confined to my own world of grief. I cry when I’m falling asleep, I cry when I’m home alone, I cry when I’m in the shower. There are more tears than there should be, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t hold them back.

Four years. Four years where I wake up each morning hoping the pain will have faded at least the tiniest bit. But it’s only gotten worse over these years, the pain sharper, as I realize how three simple words could have changed so much. I love you. I hate myself for never saying those words to him, for never getting up the courage to finally tell someone how much they mean to me. I want to go back in time and relive every moment I had with him; every laugh, every joke, every game of cards. The thought of those months I could’ve had to say goodbye to him, the thought that I never told him I loved him kills me inside. More and more each day.

He left my life eighteen days before my twelfth birthday.