How was your weekend?

I used to dread that question. Not because it wasn’t sincere, but because I felt like I had nothing good to answer. Most of the time, no one really asks me about my weekend, and when they do, I can’t help but feel like there’s nothing exciting to share.

I hated it. Hated the fact that my weekends were often spent in solitary confinement, with nothing but Japanese novels and Asian dramas heavy on the romance. I didn’t mind those things, but the emptiness of it all—the lack of anything else—weighed on me. It made me feel like there were better ways I could be spending my time. Better ways to fill the silence.

But there was something about you asking. Something about you taking the time to ask. I realized, through your simple question, that it wasn’t about the details of how I spent my time. It was about the fact that I had something to share, and someone to share it with. It wasn’t the what, but the connection that mattered. And suddenly, it made me realize: it wasn’t the weekend that needed to be better. But that I needed to allow myself live it.

And in your asking, I found myself discovering new joys. Coffee with friends under the glow of streetlights. Wandering through art fairs, not just spending money, but connecting with artists and their work. Those musicals—always magical. Early mornings, waking up before the sun, the quiet of the world at five a.m. as I did brisk walking, my own little act of defiance against the stillness.

How was your weekend? I didn’t know it at the time, but that simple question was more than just small talk. It was a reminder. A reminder to rediscover the things I love, to embrace the moments I too often let slip by unnoticed.

But I never thought the last time you’d ask me that question would come so soon.

I wish you could have one more weekend. One more chance to share it with me. I hope your weekends are everything you ever wanted them to be, wherever you are now. You will be missed more than words can capture.