Beyond Reach

I remember the first time I met Kabo— his laugh echoing through the library, a book always in hand, as if he carried world in his pockets. He quickly became my mentor, guiding me through ideas I never thought I could understand and showing me the world from a new perspective.He had a way of seeing life differently, of noticing things no one else did. I thought he’d always be there, just within reach.

But now… he isn’t.

Kabo moved away last year, chasing dreams I couldn’t follow. At first, I told myself I’d write letters to him, call him, visit — anything to stay connected. But letters went unanswered, calls went to voicemail, and messages lingered in silence. He was beyond reach.

I keep his old notebook on my desk. The pages are full of sketches, quotes, and half-finished thoughts. There’s a drawing of a tree bending in the wind, a reminder he wrote to “stand tall, even when storms pass through.” I read them over and over, tracing his handwriting with my finger, trying to feel him close again, trying to hold on to the part of him that touched my life.

I remember the long walks we took through the park, talking about everything and nothing, debating ideas I didn’t understand until later. He had this strange way of making ordinary moments feel magical, like the world was alive just for us to notice. And now, the silence he left echoes louder than any conversation.

Sometimes I imagine him walking down the streets of my town, smiling at the sky like he used to, unaware of the space he left behind. I ache to tell him how much I miss him, how much I learned from him, how much he shaped who I am. The hardest part is realizing I might never get the chance.

And then I realize: maybe that’s the point. Some people are meant to be beyond reach. Not gone, not forgotten — just… beyond. They leave their mark on our lives, and we carry it forward, even when they are far away.

I close the notebook and breathe in his memory. I can’t touch him, call him, or hold him close. But I can live as he taught me: noticing the small, extraordinary things, finding joy in unexpected corners, daring to dream and taking the steps needed to turn those dreams into reality. Every decision I make, every book I read, every laugh I share with a friend — he’s there, beyond reach, yet woven into the fabric of my life.

Then, tucked between the notebook pages, I find an envelope I’ve never noticed before. My name is written in Kabo’s familiar, looping handwriting. Inside, a single note reads:

“I may be beyond reach, but I am always here — in your laughter, your courage, your heart. Live fully. See the world, and think of me. —K”

Tears fill my eyes. Somehow, even from afar, Kabo had left me one last gift: a reminder that what matters most can never be truly lost.

Some things — some people — are beyond reach. And yet, somehow, they are exactly where they should be: in your heart.