My name is Sean, I'm 32 years old, and I hadn't cried in about 20 years, until April of this year.

Gavin was my friend, we met in high school in 1994, and became fast friends. He was a nerd, way too into Star Trek: The Next Generation than any one person should be, except maybe me, and so we clicked. It was natural that we got along so well. We grew closer, made films together, shared our dreams for the future, went through the awkward ups and downs of being teenagers, and supported each other throughout. Gav and I watched each other grow from teenage nerds into men with a passionate love of the arts.

I loved Gavin like a bother, which is why it shames me the most when he came out of the closet and I failed to support him completely. He came out to another friend first, casually, and with the confidence that I've come to admire.

Gav and I wrote as a hobby. Fiction largely, not especially good either. We shared everything we wrote with a very close group of people, and it's how we stayed connected. When Gavin moved across the country, we maintained our friendship online, through emails, message boards, and Facebook. He was thousands of kilometers away, but it never felt that way. I watched him fall in love through Facebook. I read about his career taking off through emails. I saw his social life blossom through message boards. Gavin became a whole person, and I got to be a fly on the wall from my desk on the other side of the continent.

I woke up March 24th to the strangest Facebook wall post I've ever seen. "It was great to know you for the short while I did" wrote a name I didn't recognize "you will be missed Gavin." I didn't understand the meaning of the post. Gavin was fine, we were going to play Diablo III when he got back from his road trip during the week. A few minutes passed and I refreshed his wall. Another post: "I can't believe you're gone." read a family member I hadn't met. My God, was this some sick joke? I reached out to our mutual friend who lived close by.

"Sean, I'm sorry, Gavin died yesterday." Charles, my friend, wrote. I was floored. He had just posted that he was with friends and family, happy and safe. It didn't make any sense. I began calling and messaging my friends, letting them know if I could, trying to find out what had happened. This is the part that confuses some people, why did I have to know how he died, what good would that do?

When someone dies suddenly, without warning, the first thing you feel is a loss of control. Your world is spinning madly and no matter how hard you hang on, it's just going to buck you off. I wanted to know what happened because I wanted to know what I could have done to stop it. I couldn't. I found out in the days after Gavin's death that he had died of a brain aneurysm while playing his favourite sport. He was with a student nurse and a paramedic. Later they told me, they watched as he died, they could see the life leave his eyes before he hit the ground. Gavin was 32, in good health, smart, eat well, and received great medical care. Nothing could have been done. Even if, through some insane fluke, doctors detected the fault in his brain that led to his death, likely there would have been nothing they could have done to repair it.

Over the next few months I learned more and more about how many people Gavin really affected in his life. Pictures, written tributes, and letters popped up on his Facebook wall. It was eerie to see his feed so active, knowing he was gone. Then his husband began using his acount to organize memorials across the country. Gavin died so suddenly, and away from his home, that he was quickly cremated and memorials were organized in the parts of the country where he lived.

The first memorial I missed. I had planned a family vacation many, many months prior to his death and it was far too late to change plans. I found myself in Disney World with my family, the spectre of my friends death still hanging over me. I planned one day where I would have some time alone, to unwind, away from the kids, in-laws, and other distractions. My feet and legs sore from the miles walked at the Disney parks, I filled up the tub, turned on the jets, and got in. It wasn't more than thirty minutes alone before I began to sob uncontroably. It had been two weeks since my friend had died, and just now, alone, in the quietness of my solitude, did I finally accept that this was it: Gavin was not coming back. I would never hear his voice again, or read his writing, or shake his hand. His absence was like a whole in my heart that could never be filled. I realized there would be no email from him, his acounton Battle.net would forever be "Offline". One day he was there, the next he was gone. Forever.

This was a tiny part of acceptance. I like the seven stages of grief, not because its completely accurate, but because it lets you rationalize and understand your grief. It puts you back in control, after it has been stolen from you. The biggest two misunderstanding about the seven stages of grief are that a) they never happen in a predictable order, and b) you will experience them multiple times, some times at the same time. You may be dealing with denial and acceptance at the same time, or bargain with anger. It confusing and shitty, and having a tool to understand what and why this is happening to you is always worthwhile.

Enter the tragic loss of Ryan Davis. I was just getting past the "extreme emotions" phase of dealing with my friends death. I accept that he has died, and I manage not to get too angry or sad about it. Those feelings came flooding back very quickly when I read Matt Rorie's piece about Ryan.

Within minutes the community both on Giant Bomb and elsewhere mobilized. The outpouring for Ryan was similar to the torrent of Facebook posts for my friend. I realized what a force for good this was. It was cathartic to read all the great tributes and kind words people had to say about Ryan. I'm sure his friends and family had a harder time, but for me, it was reassuring, and empowering to read about how Ryan's legacy would be felt.

I'm not over Ryan's death, or Gavin's, but I had this to say about the subject on twitter in response to Brad Muir's comment "Having a time today."

"It doesn't get easier, but you learn to live with it."

And that's become my happy medium. I can't deny the pain I feel by the loss of my friend, or Ryan, but I've learned to live with it. I've learned to use that pain. It's become a part of me, and as I continue to grow I can only hope that I never forget the parts they played in my life.