Like any Sunday, I started my day off by going to Mass. When I walked into the church, though, something out of the ordinary caught my eye. In front of the altar, a picture of a young man dressed in a tux was framed and near it stood a lit candle. The boy looked to be around his early 20s, close to my age. In the first pew sat his family. My heart just knew that was his family, this was later confirmed by the Father when he began Mass.

His mother and father had to read the first and second readings, and his fiancée read the offerings. I admired them because through all this they never broke down. They didn't say no to participating in Mass, nor did his fiancée break down when she asked the congregation to pray for his soul. It was only later on that I saw his father crying in the middle of Mass. Before me sat not just a greying man, but a broken-down father.

I watched as his shoulders moved up and down uncontrollably as his eyes poured out love and grief and longing. I'd never seen this man before. I didn't know him, or his wife, or his son, or his son's fiancée or their friends, but in that moment I wanted nothing more than to stand up from my pew and give this man a tight hug. I wanted to let him know that his son was looking after them now, that he was happy and okay, and that I would pray for his soul and ask God for strength for his family.

Alas, I didn't stand up in the middle of Mass, but I did debate throughout the service whether or not I should go up to him afterwards. Afterall, I didn't know anything about their son or their family. After a lot of mental back and forth, I decided I was going to go up to him after Mass and give him my condolences.

This I decided because every time I looked at that boy's picture in front of the altar, I felt true sadness. This I decided because I could feel that man's grief from his slumped shoulders. This I decided because while I saw him cry, I wanted to cry too. This I decided because I can't imagine the real pain and the tragedy of losing a child. This I decided because this boy seemed to have a plan: he was going to school, he was engaged, he was loved, and I could feel that. I grieved with them.

It might sound a little strange. Here I am, ready to cry over a person I never knew, yet, a part of me felt like I did. After Mass, along with other members of the congregation, I approached the father. He placed an arm around my back and my hand rested on his upper arm. I told him I'd keep them in my prayers, I'd pray for God to give them strength and I was sorry for his loss. As I said this, I have his arm a tight squeeze. I looked into those grieving eyes and felt sorrow.

He could barely speak. He simply shook his head and muttered thank you as tears clouded his eyes. As I left the church (after looking at the boy's picture one last time) I felt peace, yet a heavy sadness lingered. On my way back home, all I could do was think about this boy and his family. How his fiancée would never get to wake up next to him and start a family like they planned. How his parents would feel the weight of his absence every day. As thoughts swirled around my mind, tears threatened to burst from my eyes, and I felt genuine sadness for someone I never knew.

I write this today for his family. I don't know if they'll ever read this, but I hope they remember that girl who didn't know them, but still came up to them after Mass with heartbreak in her eyes. I write this for every family that's ever lost a son or daughter. For every empty room that is full of memories and sadness and love. For every person who made plans that never came to be. For every parent, friend and loved one who keeps their memory alive.

I wish there was more I could do. I wish parents never had to see their kids pass before them. I wish I knew that family, I wish I knew that boy's name and his story. All I can do now is write this for him and for his family, keep him alive in this page, in my memory and in my heart as the boy that I never knew, but I feel this world will miss dearly.