The Man They Called Bad Luck

By N Veyra

One day,

I went for a photo

a simple thing,

a moment meant to hold a smile still.

He was my father’s friend,

a man who shaped light

and shadows into memory.

But that day,

the shadows spoke louder.

As he edited my face

on the glowing screen,

his own face dimmed.

He said quietly

“I think I am cursed.”

Every name he loved

had turned into silence:

a brother,

then another,

a wife,

a child,

a mother

each one fading,

leaving him alive

and blamed.

They called him bad luck,

as if grief could be contagious,

as if love could summon loss.

They turned from him

when all he needed

was someone to stay.

And I thought

how strange we are,

to say “It’s God’s plan,”

then find a man to crucify for it.

He wiped his tears,

the way he erased a blemish

on the photo’s edge.

But no filter

can soften sorrow

that deep.

When I left,

I carried his eyes with me

a reminder

that sometimes,

the unluckiest people

are just the ones

who have loved

too many

who died.

By N Veyra