The last time I saw him was just moments before his death.

I could see it in his distant eyes, in the shallow rise of his breath.

He tried to pretend — to put on a brave face — but it was no use. I knew him too well to be deceived.

It was his tongue that gave it away: the slow rubbing on his top right teeth while he told me it would be okay.

Ever since my father’s passing, I haven’t been able to sleep. I lie in bed, tears sliding down my face, soaking the pillow. Heavy shadows of grief weigh down my cheeks, making me look just as dead as him.

Everyone watches. I can hear their whispers, the hushed snickers as they taunt me behind my back.

“He has no emotions,” they say. “He’s a zombie.”

I want to react — I do — but all I can manage is tightening my lips as I stare blankly ahead, too tired to turn around, too sad to fight.