Odin didn’t make it, and the world feels quieter because of it.
When I arrived, I was completely unprepared for what I saw. His whole face was swollen, so altered by pain and exhaustion that for a moment I couldn’t even recognize the soul I loved more than anything. That shock will stay with me forever. It was like reality cracked open all at once, and nothing felt real anymore.

But then he heard me.

And somehow, through everything his body had been enduring, he knew it was me.

He stood up with the last strength he had left. He came to me, slowly, deliberately, and laid his head into my hands like he had done so many times before. In that moment, nothing else existed. No fear. No noise. Just us. And then his body dropped—not because he wanted to leave, but because he simply couldn’t fight anymore. He had given everything. His strength was gone. His body had reached its limit.

That moment broke me.

I am heartbroken in a way words cannot fully explain. I feel speechless, hollow, and forever changed. A part of me left with him, and I know I will never be the same person I was before. Loving Odin shaped who I am, and losing him has reshaped me again, in ways I am still trying to understand.

Odin was not just a companion. He was presence. He was comfort. He was routine, joy, chaos, softness, and strength all at once. He filled space without trying. He loved without conditions. He understood without language. The kind of bond we shared doesn’t disappear just because his body could no longer hold it.

There is something unbearably cruel about watching someone you love grow tired of fighting. Not tired of living—but tired of hurting. Tired of carrying pain. Tired of being strong. And yet, even in that exhaustion, Odin gave me one last gift: the chance to hold him, to let him feel safe, to let him know he was not alone.

That matters.
More than anything.

I believe with everything in me that he felt my love in that final moment. That he knew he was cherished. That he let go because he trusted me, because he knew it was okay to rest.

Odin, Raffie has been waiting for you.
I imagine the gates of heaven opening wide, no pain, no weight, no exhaustion—just freedom. I see you running again, wild and unburdened, reunited with a soul who knows you as deeply as I do. I see water everywhere—endless, sparkling, cool—and you diving in without hesitation, finally free to enjoy the things you loved most.

I hope you’re having the most amazing water parties up there.
I hope you’re laughing in whatever way spirits laugh.
I hope your body feels light again.

Please keep an eye on each other. Please stay close. Please wait for me.

Grief is not linear. Some moments I will remember you with a smile, grateful for every second we had. Other moments, the pain will knock the breath out of me without warning. I will miss the sound of you. The way you existed in a room. The way you made life feel fuller just by being there.

People say time heals, but I don’t think that’s true. Time doesn’t heal love like this—it teaches us how to carry it differently. Odin will always be part of me. In my memories. In my instincts. In the quiet moments when my heart still reaches for him without thinking.

Thank you, my baby, for choosing me.
Thank you for trusting me.
Thank you for staying as long as you could.

You were so brave. You were so loved. And you will never, ever be forgotten.

Until we meet again 🤍
Run free. Rest easy.
I love you always.