Introduction:
…and what I wanted to say earlier is that a lot of people think time fixes it. It doesn’t. You don’t wake up one day and suddenly understand why you’re the only one left. It isn’t peace, it’s survival. You learn to live around the missing pieces because you can’t live without them.
When we were young, it was always “we.”
We wrote as we.
We performed as we.
We survived as we.
Now it’s “I.”
And “I” has never felt natural.
I used to think the most extraordinary thing about our lives was the fame — the lights, the charts, the screaming crowds. But when you strip all that away, the thing I miss most is… brotherhood. The laughter nobody else ever heard. The arguments nobody else was allowed to see. The silence on the plane rides home after a show, when we knew — without saying a word — we had done something no one else could.
If I close my eyes, I can still hear them — Robin’s voice, that plaintive sound that could cut through an entire stadium, and Maurice, always grounding me, pulling us back to center when the world felt like it was spinning too fast. And Andy… the child heart we never got to see grow old.
I think people assume grief ends when applause does.
But applause is the loneliest sound in the world when there’s no one beside you to hear it with you.
That’s why I talk about them in the present tense.
Because they haven’t left me in the way people think.
I carry them.
Every day.
Every song.
Every audience.
Every breath on stage.
The Bee Gees — the “band” — ended years ago.
But the brothers… they never left.
They live in my head, and my heart, and in every decision I still make as if they were in the next room.
And I suppose the truth is — I can’t come to terms with them being gone… because I’ve never learned how to live in a world where they are.