May 11, 2019: The Day Everything Changed

This new chapter of my life had a clear name.

Grief.

I truly believed life had given me enough resilience and stories to tell. But nothing could’ve prepared me for what the next few months held.

As I mentioned in my previous post, I had finally begun to reclaim my life. Emotionally, mentally - I was finally standing on solid ground. The worst was behind me, and I could start envisioning a future I actually wanted to live.

One of my long-standing passions has always been to help others, especially vulnerable children. So I took a bold move and applied to study law at the University of London, hoping to one day advocate for children’s rights. When I got accepted, I was so proud. That decision, that accomplishment, was entirely mine. Finally.

I was also thrilled to embark on my second adventure back to Latin America, this time for a friend's wedding in Colombia! Having attended Hotel Management School together, it was not just a journey back to one of my home countries and my Latino roots, but also an incredible reunion with friends I hadn't seen in ages. The trip was an absolute dream come true! We celebrated the wedding in Bogota and then spent a few exhilarating days in the lively city of Cartagena. I soaked up the sun, the music, and the vibrant atmosphere -everything I adore and needed!

Once I got back, real life crept back in. I returned home and started preparing for my first law exam - “Introduction to Legal Systems.” Simple enough, but the nerves were not simple at all. I hadn’t studied or sat an exam in years, so even learning how to study felt foreign.

And that’s when he texted me.

Out of nowhere:

“I have been doing some email blast outs for the suitcases and am going through old emails. Re-living all the messages and efforts you did to help us, I realized I clearly didn't appreciate your efforts enough. It is way too late and I know you said you didn't want to hear from me but I just want to say thank you for doing all of that and I am sorry I couldn't appreciate it enough when we were together. I wish you lots of luck with your exams!”

Conflicting emotions. As usual.

On the one hand, I was glad he acknowledged something. On the other, it was too little, too late. And most importantly, our true issue had never been about lack of appreciation. It was the psychological and physical abuse. It was the trauma. It was everything left unsaid. I decided to focus on my exam preparation and not respond.

But May 2019 had other plans for me.

Shortly after, I got a letter from the tax office - sent to me because he still hadn’t updated his contact details. I sent it over with a note asking him to handle it. No reply. I figured he was mad I hadn’t answered his message and now dared to “bother” him with business stuff.

Then came another red flag.

A friend mentioned he had launched a new version of his last business - and included me on the website as part of the founding team. Old photos of us, old stories, as if I was still involved. I was livid.

I messaged him, asking for the photos to be removed. No response. That alone was unusual - silence was not his style. He would’ve lashed out. A few days later I checked his e-mail (yes, I still had access from when I used to manage the accounts). My message, plus dozens of others - unread.

Something wasn’t right. But I also had my exam looming. This was the moment I had rebuilt my life for, and I wasn’t going to let him derail it again. I pushed through, heavily medicated my anxiety, and showed up for it. I wrote that exam like my future depended on it - because it did. It was my small act of rebellion. My quiet “no more.”

Afterward, I started calling. Messaging his friends. Nothing.

I ended up going to his apartment with a friend. Rang the bell. No answer. I had returned the keys recently when I transferred the lease to his name so I couldn’t get in. I tried calling him suppressing my number and still no answer. Something in my gut was screaming. However, I had not been able to rely on my emotions for so long, that doing so was still a struggle.

My thoughts spiraled from “He’s probably just on holiday or taking a digital detox” to “Something’s seriously wrong.” And the truth was - with him, it could’ve been either. He knew how to wage psychological warfare. Part of me, still tangled in old trauma, wondered if this was some twisted tactic to get my attention. He knew exactly how to push my buttons, how to make me spiral.

But alongside that familiar fear came something darker. A gut feeling I didn’t want to admit. What if this wasn’t manipulation? What if this time, it really was the unthinkable?

I was stuck in a mental tug-of-war - unsure what was real and what was leftover fear.

The next morning - May 11, 2019 - I walked into a police station and said the words I had tried so hard to ignore:

“I’d like to file a missing person’s report.”

What followed felt like a scene from a movie. I explained everything: the silence, the e-mails, his bipolar diagnosis, his past suicide attempt.

I said it out loud.

And once I did, I couldn’t ignore the reality of it anymore. And finally the policeman also took me seriously.

Some parts of that day are crystal clear and some are very fuzzy. I remember sitting in a private room explaining it all to another policeman and then we were driving in a van to his apartment.

Once we had arrived, they explained the process: ring the bell, check the windows, call a locksmith if needed. “If we have to call a locksmith,” one officer said, “it likely means we’re not helping anymore. We’re identifying.”

I still clung to hope. Told myself I was being dramatic.

We rang the bell, no answer. We walked around to the garden. All the blinds were down. That was odd. One of the officers tried to lift a corner of the blind to peek inside. “There’s a light on in the bathroom,” he said, “but the rest of the apartment is dark.”

And what did I think in that moment? Honestly? "You idiot. The kind of trouble I would’ve gotten into for leaving a light on while travelling." That was the dynamic. That’s how deep the control had gone.

I told the officer this wasn’t normal. Not for him. They explained they couldn’t see anyone inside, so we’d wait for the locksmith.

But I still didn’t connect the dots. Or rather - I refused to. My brain just wouldn’t go there. Not yet.

I remember asking, hesitantly, “If he were in there… wouldn’t there be a smell?”

The officer paused, choosing his words carefully - leaving space for speculation, and maybe for hope.“These kinds of things depend on a lot of factors - temperature, timing… there’s no way to be sure. Let’s just wait for the locksmith.”

And so we did. When he arrived, they asked me to wait one floor up, at the building entrance. I didn’t want to, but I complied.

And then - That smell. That undeniable smell.

I knew.

But I didn’t want to know.

Minutes later, the policewoman returned. Her voice gentle. Her eyes heavy.

“We have found a male body in the apartment. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

My world stopped. My legs gave out. My heart shattered in a way I didn't know was possible.

I felt my friend's arms wrap around me, anchoring me as I completely broke down. I cried in disbelief. I cried in shock. I cried in a pain I had never known existed - the kind that rips straight through your chest and leaves you gasping for air. When people say it feels like your heart is being torn out, they’re not being metaphorical. I felt it.

Eventually, when I could breathe again, the officers gently helped me back into the police van. I sat there, dazed, staring blankly through the window. But the chaos wasn’t done.

That’s when it turned into something out of a movie.

The forensic department arrived. Then the fire brigade. More police. The building was now a "crime" scene. They explained they had found a tank of an unidentified substance in the apartment and needed to secure the area. That’s why the fire brigade had been called in. The forensics team was there to assess the scene and handle the body.

I sat there in stunned silence, watching it all unfold. If I hadn’t lived it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. It was like I’d stumbled into a crime drama - except I wasn’t the audience. I was right there in the middle of it, and the story was mine.

That moment split my life into before and after. Grief doesn’t ask if you're ready. It just crashes in and takes over.

What happened in the days that followed - the phone calls, the questions, the silence, the storm - deserve their own space. So I’ll pause here, for now. Even six years later, revisiting this chapter feels like reopening a wound I thought had scarred over. Some experiences are so vivid, they don’t fade - they just wait quietly until you're ready to face them again.

In the next post, I’ll share what it was like to process a loss so tangled in trauma… and how I began the long road of grieving someone who once broke me.