remembering people i barely knew.

I think about people who have died more often than I used to. Some I knew well, others I barely knew, and a few I never met at all. I’ve spent years remembering people i barely knew, and at some point I stopped pushing that away and started paying attention to why.

Why do we feel the loss of people we weren’t close to? Is it strange to be affected by someone who was only briefly part of your life, or never part of it at all? I questioned that instinct at first, but the feelings showed up anyway. They didn’t wait for permission or explanation.

One of them went to the same high school I did. We weren’t friends then and only crossed paths again years later when we briefly worked together. At first, I assumed he’d be dismissive. He was popular and seemed socially effortless, the kind of person I’d learned to keep my distance from. But the few moments we shared told a different story. He was quieter than he appeared, more observant, and one of the only people who went out of his way to check in. We talked once about making plans, then life moved on like it does. He died in 2021. What stayed with me wasn’t regret as much as the realization that I’d misread someone who had actually taken the time to see me clearly.

A few years ago, I came across a tattoo artist on TikTok who lived in Arizona and was a few years younger than me. I thought about reaching out for an appointment but assumed he was booked far out. Some people mocked the way he spoke, while others admired how open he was. One day, he posted a goodbye video. That was it. The pain behind his eyes was impossible to miss. I didn’t know him, but the grief felt close. You could tell he was loved. He deserved more time than he got.

There are others too. A girl I was friends with in middle school who died by suicide in her early twenties. A guy from my earlier high school years who died in a car accident. They weren’t part of my adult life, yet knowing where their stories ended unsettled me. It wasn’t nostalgia. It was the recognition that their lives were still unfolding, and then suddenly they weren’t.

One artist has carried more weight for me than the rest. His name was Tim Bergling.

Before his death, Tim recorded “SOS,” which was released afterward as one of his first posthumous tracks.

Can you hear me? S.O.S. Help me put my mind to rest.

Tim struggled for years with anxiety, depression, and the pressure that came with constant visibility. As his success grew, so did the strain. Touring drained him, and performing became unsustainable. He spoke openly about how fame amplified what he was already fighting rather than easing it. In 2016, he stepped away from DJing to protect his health. In 2018, he died by suicide at 28.

What stayed with me wasn’t just how young he was. It was how clearly his music carried what he couldn’t always say. His melodies held vulnerability without spectacle. They sounded careful and restrained, like someone trying to make sense of what they were feeling instead of performing it. That honesty is why his work reached far beyond electronic music.

During high school, his production style stuck with me. a sky full of stars still does. heaven, especially, always stops me. I picture him at the keys, not because it’s comforting, but because it reminds me how much he poured into his work even while unraveling.

I don’t imagine that knowing me would have changed anything for him. But I do wish I could’ve told him that the exhaustion came through, that the weight he carried was visible. His music made space for emotions that success never protected him from.

Some people stay with us not because of proximity, but because they leave something unfinished behind. Their lives surface questions without clean answers, and that recognition lingers.

I don’t carry these people as personal losses. I carry them as reminders. Remembering this way isn’t indulgence. It’s attention. It’s how those echoes stay human instead of fading into silence.

Updated February 4, 2026.