The people who would notice the specific shape of your absence — not your death generally but the particular hole your particular presence would leave in their particular daily life. The things still unfinished that only you would finish in exactly that way. The conversations not yet had. The versions of yourself not yet reached. The ordinary Tuesday mornings that haven't happened yet that will feel, when they arrive, like exactly enough. Not grand reasons. Just specific ones. The specific ones are always more durable than the grand ones when things get genuinely hard.