The Last Superhero I Ever Watched a Movie With

The last time I saw my cousin Pablo, we were lying in bed watching The Batman—Spanish dub turned on, volume a little too loud, nobody really caring. I’d already seen the movie and hadn’t thought much of it the first time around. But that day, it became sacred.

Pablo always loved superheroes. Especially The Flash. He had a thing for speed, for stories where someone could outrun fate. But on that day, it wasn’t about the hero on screen. It was about the three of us—me, Pablo, and his brother Javier—sharing a blanket, a movie, and what we knew deep down would be our last time together.

Pablo’s body was tired. The brain tumor had taken a lot. His voice was soft. But his eyes—his eyes still had that glimmer. That sly smile. The one that made you feel like you were in on a joke the world hadn’t heard yet. The one that made you laugh even when things weren’t funny.

We sat with him. We watched. We laughed. And when the credits rolled, I looked at Javier, and he looked at me, and we both knew.

I had to leave. Back to Texas. Back to normal. Without Pablo.

I didn’t want to say goodbye. Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I knew exactly what it meant.

Javier did too. He’s Pablo’s older brother, but also his fiercest protector. His keeper. His mirror. The bond between them was the kind that humbles you. Unspoken, deep, threaded through decades of shared rooms and jokes and battles. 

So when I turned to Javier in that moment—when the screen had gone dark and all we could hear was the hum of the fan and the breath of the man we both loved—we didn’t need to say anything. 

We just knew.

Then I turned to Pablo.

He looked at me with the same soft grin he always had, like he was about to roast me for something. Like maybe he knew I’d cried earlier in the hallway. Or that I still couldn’t pronounce certain words in Spanish correctly. Or that I was about to walk away for the last time and was doing a terrible job hiding how much it hurt.

Did he know it was goodbye? Did he know it was me?

I’m not sure. Brain tumors are cruel that way. They take without telling you what they’ve taken.

But it didn’t really matter. Because the Pablo in that bed was still Pablo. The sly, tender, sarcastic, fiercely loving cousin I grew up with. The one who’d beat cancer twice and still made time to ask you how you were doing. The one who lit up rooms and kept his light on—for everyone else—even when things were dark.

He wasn’t gone yet. He was still here. And so were we.

So we watched a movie.

We were cousins, but it felt more like brothers. Pablo was younger than me, but in some ways, he was always the one teaching me how to really be with people.

Growing up, we spent summers like they were ours to invent. Making up games, trading jokes, watching cartoons with the kind of intensity usually reserved for religion or sports. He was always a little mischievous, always one step ahead with the punchline—and always, always kind.

Even as a kid, Pablo had this magnetic ease about him. Like he saw straight past your awkwardness, your mistakes, your armor—and loved you anyway. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t loud. It was just there. Quiet. Constant. Unshakable.

And that never changed.

He grew up. Fought cancer. Fought it again. Lived with pain most people never have to imagine. And somehow, through it all, he still led with joy. With laughter. With love.

At his burial, the earth itself felt crowded. Hundreds came. Family, friends, coworkers, neighbors—people who had met him once and never forgot him. All there for Pablo.

It wasn’t just grief. It was gratitude. Because he didn’t just touch lives—he lifted them. With that smirk. That wit. That deep, bottomless acceptance that made you feel like you belonged.

And somehow, he made all of us feel like that.

I still don’t know how to say goodbye to Pablo. I’m not sure I ever will.

Grief has this way of sneaking in sideways. It’s not just the big moments, the anniversaries, the obvious reminders. It’s the small, ordinary things. A song. A joke. A movie I didn’t even like the first time.

The Batman will never be just a movie again.

It’ll be the memory of three men—one fading, two holding on—sharing a quiet, sacred moment in a room full of love.

And maybe that’s the thing. Pablo left us, yes. But not really.

He’s there in the laughter that comes too easily. In the acceptance we offer without question. In the choice to show up for people, even when we’re tired. Especially when we’re tired.

He’s there when we love with our whole selves, no matter how much it hurts.

And he’s there when we remember that what makes life meaningful isn’t how polished we are—but how present we’re willing to be. With each other. For each other.

I miss my cousin. I miss my friend. I miss that grin, that voice, that way he had of making you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

And if he’s anywhere at all…

I hope he’s running—free, fast, fearless—somewhere beyond all this pain. 

Just like The Flash. 

Just like Pablo.