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The process of processing such a loss follows a hauntingly familiar pattern. The initial report is met with a sharp, instinctive denial. We tell ourselves it must be a hoax, a cruel glitch in the digital matrix, or a misunderstanding of the highest order. We refresh our feeds with trembling fingers, searching for the retraction that we are certain must be coming. We look for another source, a different perspective, any shred of evidence that the world is still the same as it was five minutes ago. But then, the confirmations begin to arrive with the steady, rhythmic thud of a closing door. One reputable outlet after another mirrors the grim reality. Tributes begin to pour in from peers, friends, and world leaders. The archive footage starts to circulate—black and white clips of a younger version of the icon, full of life and promise—and the truth becomes an undeniable weight in the center of the chest. They are gone.
