When someone dies, most people’s reaction is to slap some reductive, feel-good label on their legacy. Her smile could light up a room. He was the life of the party. The claims are so blanketed, they leave no room for nuance, for reality. Even I, who’ve spent years learning better, still do it. Hadn’t I, just a few minutes earlier, searched for some superlative to stick in front of Jules’s name? As if prettiest, smartest, or funniest was the only thing that could give her life meaning. Hypocrite, I think acidly.
