By Xhabir Deralla

It’s hard for me to write about Kreshnik. Especially because he was an exceptionally sharp and precise editor – he would catch every trace of pathos or excess word in my texts with merciless accuracy, and with his disarmingly delicate wit, he could make me laugh to tears – at my own expense.

Now he’s gone.

Two years have passed. Today he would have turned 57. He left us on this day – his birthday. And today, I want to speak to him, at the risk of being too emotional, even too pathetic – so different from his warm and deeply human simplicity. And yes, I’ll be sentimental, even if it wouldn’t pass his filter of near-British restraint and humor.

Kreshnik,

Two years without your voice and your presence, your sharp and precise thoughts… two years since your heart stopped beating. Two years without a new joke from your arsenal, your quiet strength, and your unwavering loyalty. Two years without that brotherly closeness we never had to define with words.

There’s no formal commemoration this year. No speech like last year. I know you would’ve preferred it that way – no official ceremonies. But I also know you would’ve been proud and moved by the concert that Idriz Ameti and your son, Jon, performed. Jon, who is now a fully formed music star.

I think of you every day. We mention you every day at the office. Even the new colleagues know about you. If you were to walk through the door, it would feel like you had never left. More than once over the past two years, I’ve instinctively reached for the phone to call you and ask for advice. And in that brief second – you’re there, present and real – until the Absence sets in again.

As always, when I face decisions, you still have your place in them. And as you already know, I often go against your imagined advice. Of course, I then say to myself—I should’ve done it the way he would have.

You’re still present in countless ways. In our newsroom. On the street. On the terrace of the new café next to CIVIL. In the bursts of laughter that follow a witty remark that reminds us of your way of thinking. A quiet, unshed tear then echoes that laughter.

Yes, you left.

But you are still here.
You are present in countless beautiful ways.
Not in the past.
Now.
Loved.
Kreshnik.