They wanted it to come softly. Not harsh or sudden but soft and familiar. Maybe it would feel like falling asleep in the middle of a conversation, surrounded by the quiet hum of voices and the sound of distant laughter. They imagined those sounds wrapping around them, telling them life in all its messy glory went on just beyond their reach.
Perhaps it would be like the nights of their childhood, dozing off on the couch during a family gathering. The warmth of the room would envelop them as they slipped away. They pictured being lifted then, not by the cold hands of time but by something gentle. Something that held them as carefully as a parent’s arms. In this scenario they wouldn’t stir or struggle, only sink deeper into the feeling of being carried, weightless and safe, to a place where they could finally sleep.
They thought about the small things they wanted even now. The smell of fresh sheets. The sound of rain on a window. The way the world could be still and big all at once. They wanted that kind of quiet. The kind that doesn’t shout endings but hums peace. A world folding in on itself without leaving them alone.
More than anything they wanted presence. Not grand gestures of grief or rehearsed goodbyes but the small things. A hand on their forehead. The sound of someone making chai down the hall. A voice saying “I am here!” even if they couldn’t respond. They didn’t want to fight or hold on anymore. All they wanted was to be loved as they let go.
They wanted it to be gentle. To take their pain and leave behind only heat. To feel like being tucked into bed after the longest day. No need to move, no need to talk. Only the knowledge that they were home. And as their breath slowed and the world faded, they wanted to hear the laughter in the next room. The sounds of life going on as it always does, as it should. That would be enough.