Today, I found out that Rex Gomez has died.
The first thought that landed, heavy and sharp, was this. I am almost certain he died alone.
That thought hurt more than the news itself.
Rex had this quiet way of giving. He offered what he had without asking why, without keeping score. If he called you a friend, you were family. Sometimes treated even better than family, because his kindness was chosen, never forced.
He was the kind of person you trusted with the things you never said out loud. The secrets that feel safer when they leave your chest and sit with someone who knows how to hold them. Rex never judged. He listened. He understood. And when he spoke, his advice came gently, like it was meant to steady you, not fix you.
I will miss the lunches that stretched longer than planned. The easy conversations that wandered wherever they wanted. The haircuts and hair colors he insisted were free, no matter how much you tried to pay. As if caring for people was simply part of who he was.
Rex was kind. Not loudly. Not performatively. Just deeply, consistently kind.
And now the thought lingers. That someone who gave so much might have spent his final moments alone. I hope, wherever he is now, he knows he was never truly solitary. He lived inside the lives of many people. He mattered. He still does.
Rest well, Rex. You were loved, even when you did not ask for it.
