a true story about The Last of Us season 2 and why it hurts so much to lose characters we love

*major spoiler alert for The Last of Us season 2 (and Part II of the game). Do not read ahead if you don’t want anything spoiled from episode 1 and 2.

I’ve taken up a part-time job. So far the shifts are Sundays 10p-12a, Mondays 8a-9a; 5p-12a, and Tuesdays 8a-9a; 5p-6p. The job? Audio messaging back and forth with friends about The Last of Us season 2. The job does not pay, technically, but, then again that depends on what currency you’re using.

For me, it’s been one of the most fulfilling jobs I’ve ever had.

I have a giraffe tattoo on my arm that was inspired by The Last of Us, and when I found out season 2 was going to premiere on my birthday, April 13, I commissioned a baker to make me a cake with elements from both parts/seaons of the story.

So, when episode 2 premiered last night and the Very Bad Thing happened, my DMs were flooded with audio messages, half of them from sobbing friends. Many people told me they didn’t have any other friends who watched and knew that I was a fan and needed someone to sob to and process with. I also sent long audio messages to a few of my close friends who played the game, sharing my thoughts on how it’s being adapted for TV, and hearing theirs.

Today a friend mentioned a correlation to Game of Thrones when it came to the idea of main characters dying in ways you didn’t see coming, and I realized that watching Game of Thrones was the last time I had this kind of TV experience, the kind that creates community and conversation.

One of the many things I love about The Last of Us is how it invites, almost requires, participation. It’s not telling you outright what’s right or wrong, who’s good or bad. It doesn’t always make you feel good either, but it always makes you think. It offers the opportunity, for those who take it, to form your own opinion of what’s right and wrong, and then take a look at your own heart and ask yourself why you feel that way.

This season (and part II of the game), is also, in my opinion, an exploration of empathy, of how easy it is to love someone when you know their story, and how easy it is to hate someone when you don’t.

One audio message that moved me was from a friend who said the scene where the Very Bad Thing happened triggered a deep reaction, how Ellie’s cry of “no” reminded her of a similar “no” she cried as a child when she witnessed unspeakable horrors. In that moment, she saw herself. It was painful, but she felt seen.

I too felt seen in the giraffe scene of the first season. Season one was my first introduction to the story, and I sobbed when Ellie interacts with the giraffes immediately after her deeply traumatic experience. It reminded me of a similar animal interaction I had after I experienced my first life-altering trauma. In that moment, I saw myself. It was painful, but I felt seen.

Not everyone feels that way of course, especially after the second episode. One friend said she’s going to stop watching because she’s so devastated by what happened. And it made me think about why it’s so hurtful to lose fictional characters we love, especially unexpectedly (and brutally). It’s always sad to see a main character go, but I think it hits different when you truly don’t see it coming, when it’s someone you’re expecting to spend an hour with every Sunday for the next few months (and again next year when season 3 drops). You see a future. You’re excited. You’re ready. There is plenty of unknown still, but you feel this is known. And then, even when their life is threatened, you feel mostly fine because you know they’re going to be saved at the last minute. They’re going to get out of it. They’re going to be okay, and thus, you’re going to be okay. That is the hero’s journey narrative. That’s what many stories do. We see the character we love win. It feels like a promise.

And when that character is killed in the second episode of a show, it can feel like a promise has been broken. It can feel like a particularly scary kind of loss, the kind that makes you feel untethered because it reminds us of the thing we try to forget. The feeling that nothing is safe. That no one is safe. That it’s all fragile, hanging by a thread. 2020 reminded us of this. It is not a fun thing to be reminded of.

Growing up, I logically always anything could happen to anyone, but I didn’t really know it in my bones until I experienced my own traumatic experience; that permeation was what I didn’t see coming. The grieving process was brutal, but expected. What I didn’t expect was that I’d never see the world the same way again. That I would never be the same again. That I would now know fragility in a way I thought I knew but didn’t really: that no one was safe.

What do we do with that?

Fear? Cynicism? Revenge? Love? Hate? Detachment? Faith? Hope?

Each person gets to choose for themselves. You get to decide.

(Which is why I’m also obsessed with the tagline for this season: “Every path has a price.”)

Every path is also a choice.

And I for one am having the best time analyzing those choices with friends—both the choices of the characters and the choices of the actors and storytellers and artists who are bringing this story to life. I’m grateful for people who choose to tell stories that make us feel, make us think, and make us really talk to each other.