On Sunday, one of my neighbors was found dead in her apartment. From what I heard, it was a medical issue. The firefighters said she had probably been there for a while, but honestly, how does anyone really know?

I didn’t know her very well, but she was one of those people I’d look for when something weird happened in the building. She had this big, goofy dog—although, to me, all dogs are puppies. When she first got him, his paws were huge, and you just knew he was going to grow into them. He had a bark that sounded tough, but he was such a sweet boy.

Since hearing about her, a few thoughts keep circling in my head:

• Should I have somehow known she needed help? Could I have done something?
• I really hope she didn’t suffer.
• I hope her family has the support they need to get through this.
• I hope her funeral costs don’t become a burden for her loved ones.

And then there’s this darker thought that keeps popping up—a thought I’ve had before, but it hits harder now: How long would it take for someone to notice if something happened to me?

It’s a depressing thought, I know. But it’s also one that leaves me feeling kind of empty. With my parents gone, there’s no one left who’s really connected to me like that—no one who’d immediately notice if I was just… gone.

Maybe this is just my typical end-of-year existential spiral. Or maybe it’s one of those moments that reminds you how fragile life is and how easily we can slip through the cracks.