I think the hardest part of losing someone like Liam is not just their absence — it’s the stillness they leave behind.
Liam had a laugh that could light up a room before he even walked into it. It wasn’t performative or loud for the sake of being heard. It was real. Raw. Infectious. It made you feel like joy was possible, even on the worst days. He laughed with his whole being — head thrown back, eyes lit, like he was free, even if only for a second.
And now…
The silence where that laughter used to live is deafening.
Rooms feel bigger. Air feels heavier. The corners where his voice once bounced now seem still, like they’re holding their breath, waiting for something that won’t return in the way it once did.
But I keep telling myself this: Liam’s laughter didn’t die.
It echoes.
In the moments we remember him. In the stories we tell. In Bear’s spontaneous giggles that sound just like his.
In Cheryl’s voice when she sings for him. In fans who smile through their tears remembering a joke he made on stage.
In all of us — the people who loved him, who love him still.
Because the truth is, you don’t stop hearing someone when they’re gone.
You just start listening in a different way.
Be the first to comment