One year ago I received a call from a friend stating that a work friend of mine had killed himself in his apartment in Paris.
I was in shock. He never seemed like the person who would do that to himself. He was to stubborn to give up. He was a Sri Lankan boy bred in France, thats a lot of stubborn. I would joke with him saying how of all the countries in the world he had to be Sri Lankan and French. But he was quite accomplished. Having done a plethora of things, lived in London & France, worked for many organisations. He was a go getter, a lot more talk than action.
He and I got along quite fine. Many of his colleagues had issues with him. He was outspoken, heck he did get on my nerves too. But I always calmed myself down. He came to Sri Lanka to reconnect with his roots, he was an outsider in the country that he shared the same blood with.
I laughed when they tried to drag him to the ocean.
I laughed when he was left hanging.
I giggled when others rolled their eyes when he was speaking.
I giggled when upper management scoffed at him.
I snapped at him when he called by friend a slut whilst drunk.
I scowled at him when he spoke brashly at the top of his voice.
I bought him a drink when he got his transfer back to France.
I smiled when he congratulated me on resigning.
I teared when I got that call saying that he died.
I grieve his loss one year later.
Au revoir mon amie, Thisara.