Unspoken Love: A Tribute to Friendship, Loss, and Finding Closure
The Power of Saying What Matters
In 1997, I lost a very dear friend to suicide. His pancreas had begun to fail, and he developed an aggressive form of diabetes that stole his sight. Books were his lifeline; he devoured literature like air. When blindness took that away, he couldn’t cope. His family moved him back to Spain, hoping to care for him better. But they were never close, and he must have hated it. Coming from old money, appearances mattered more than connection. In his teens, he’d been a rebel and experimented with drugs. His parents had packed him off to a Swiss boarding school to “fix” him. After that, he was sent to the UK, almost in exile. It was a typical out-of-sight, out-of-mind situation.
The same secrecy that shaped his life also surrounded his illness. No one knew what had happened. We used to talk daily, and then, suddenly, he vanished. I asked around, but no one had answers. We’d worked together in London in 1994, and it was through a former colleague that I learned of his condition. These were the days before email, social media, or even mobile phones. I had no idea where he was, what hospital he was in. Then, the next thing I heard was that he’d jumped out of a fourth-floor window. Words can't capture how I felt then, and I’m crying now as I type this.
His family arranged to send his belongings to charity, but close friends were allowed into his flat to take a few keepsakes. The whole thing was devastating, surreal. I never got to say goodbye. I never told him how much he meant to me or how he helped me when I first arrived in London in 1994, surviving on a tiny scholarship. He was older than me, in his early 40s when I was 21. I would tell him stories about living my Madonna-inspired “Justify My Love” fantasy in rubber at S&M bars, and he would share tales of 1970s Madrid, where he lived his own wild highs and deep lows with the love of his life, Alicia. She had moved to San Francisco, fleeing her own life, just as he had fled to Switzerland and then to London.
Madrid was a shared wound for us. We had both run from the suffocating traditionalism of Spanish culture. Trauma chased me out too, including a physical assault that scarred both my body and my soul. We bonded like brothers, linked by a love-hate relationship with the city that shaped us. We found solace in shared memories of croquetas and vermouth at Casa Labra, or a walk down Gran Vía, and we were both anglophiles who felt free in London’s don’t-give-a-f*ck vibe.
When he died, I was in such shock that I barely remember feeling anything. Numbness replaced everything. It took many years to come to terms with his death and with my feelings about it. I think of him often, but today, World Suicide Prevention Day, I feel his absence more sharply. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been grappling with the frailty of ageing parents, with feelings of loss and emotional exhaustion.
This was meant to be a short note, but emotions have their own way of spilling out. All I want to say is: if someone matters to you, tell them. If you find them beautiful, say so. If they inspire you, share it. If they touch your soul, don’t hold back. Because if you wait, you may lose the chance, and that love, when left unspoken, turns into grief.
So, share it now. Share it today. Share it while you can.
Te adoro Fernando 💛
Thank you for sharing, Miguel.
It is deeply felt.
I too have lost young men in their 40s, close people.
Nobody saw it coming.
Vulnerabilities cleverly hidden behind jokes and masks of confidence.
It has changed my interactions with friends.
The value I put into and appreciate in those friendships.
I try to remember to take photos with friends.
Everyone deserves our kindness bc we don’t know what turmoil may lie just beneath.
Much love to you 💕
You are loved.
💚
Thank you for sharing about your friend Miguel. Loss changes things, as it teaches us about the fragility as well as the preciousness of life.
I have also lost friends and colleagues to both suicide as well as cancer and it sucks. I think about them often.