In improv theatre, a scene unfolds and creates itself in real-time. No script. Nothing planned. Just spontaneous and raw and changing moment by moment. Much like life itself.

There’s nothing worse than a barren, empty stage, with the audience waiting to exhale. Someone had to step up, but my mind was blank, as I stood offstage, feeling the seconds tick by.

I jumped onstage anyway. Sometimes when you have nothing, you just have to start moving your body or making a sound. Let your physicality lead the way and eventually, the character will magically embody you.

I just started waving my arms back and forth ridiculously and making some strange noises. Where was this going to go? Panic was quickly ensuing. But then suddenly, Nick jumped onstage and started to mimic my movements. And sometimes that’s all you need. Someone else who acknowledges your choices — your movements, your dialogue, whatever it is — a mirror reflecting the world back at you. And slowly, the gaps start to fill in. The picture is developing right before your eyes, and you witness the magic of the scene unfolding, created together, just going on pure instinct and faith in each other.

The scene morphed into a short skit with Nick and I becoming two angels in heaven, keeping watch over the pearly gates as different candidates came and went, trying to get in. Maybe it wasn’t the greatest scene that we had done, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he showed up for me and I showed up for him. We took on the unknown together, step by step, knowing that it would all work out, bound by trust and companionship. And the irony of the theme of the skit would soon be not lost on me.

I didn’t know Nick very well, but we had spent the last 12 weeks in improv class, playing games, laughing and letting our imagination transform us into weird and wonderful new characters, found in the oddest of places and the wackiest of situations. He was one of those guys that lit up a room. An energy that was bright and positive and full of life, letting his wonder bubble up to the surface.

After our performance, Nick and I sat next to each other, watching the next class perform their show, laughing together at the craziness that was unfolding. He had such a genuine, hearty laugh that made his whole body convulse with joy. Soon after, we all gathered around and shared a drink and celebrated our night. At one point, Nick told me he had had quite a challenging year and was doing some soul-searching. He told me that he was about to head off on his own and walk part of the Camino de Santiago. Before long, we were all saying our goodbyes for the summer break. I hugged him and I wished him well. And then he walked out into the evening and out of sight.

Little did I know at the time that that was the last time that I would see his smiling face.

We got a text message from our improv teacher about a week after the show. Unbelievably, just a few days after the show, Nick passed away peacefully in his sleep from a respiratory illness that he was unaware that he had. We were all just stunned. Many of us said that we would be at his memorial service on July 23rd.

That day arrived and I made my way to the funeral home on the metro. When I got there, a handful of other people had shown up, too. We slowly walked to the building in the oppressive July heat and entered the cool building. We looked at the video screen in the lobby to see in which room Nick’s memorial service would be held. I noticed that at least six other services were going on at the same time. Very bizarre. The names of the deceased were displayed on the screen, row by row, like a departures board at an airport.

The final departure, I couldn’t help but think.

We all lined up to pay our respects in the long, narrow viewing room. At the end of the room was a plain, pine box surrounded by bouquets of flowers. All very strange. This man who was full of life, full of opportunity and future dreams, just beneath that wooden lid. It all seems so absurd, in a way. But really, Nick’s body may have been lying there, but he wasn’t there at all. He would keep on living through us. Through our memories and silent thoughts and photos brought in and through the kind words written in his memorial book. That’s really where he lived.

After the viewing period, we all walked solemnly to the auditorium where the memorial service would be held. I was glad that I was surrounded by my fellow improv friends. We held each other from time to time. We cried softly. We laughed at the fond memories shared by his loved ones. And one thing became very clear to me. So many people mentioned that they didn’t know Nick for very long, but they all felt the light that shined from within him. That knowing him, however brief, was a precious gift. Selfishly, I was almost glad that I didn’t know him more because the people who did know him well were in such a state of unbearable pain and loss. But then I thought: The degree of your pain with the loss of a loved one is a mirror — a reflection — of how deeply you loved someone while they were on this earth.

And I couldn’t help thinking about my life. Could I be better to people? Could I give more? How will I be remembered? And I came away from the whole experience knowing one thing. The small moments matter, too. The little smile at a stranger. The kind words to people. Resting a hand on someone’s shoulder when you know someone is going through a lot.

Through the sadness of a life snuffed out far too early, my heart opened. My heart softened. A feeling that we are all on this crazy stage called life, with our entries and exits, interacting with one another, laughing, sharing energy.

You know, in improv, the number one rule of it all is what’s known as ‘yes and…’. When someone offers a situation, place or thing, you always acknowledge that it’s true. It’s real. You never shut it down because you want to build an imaginary world together. You have to build on what is offered.

I walked away from that day wanting to be a better person. To help those in need. To say to those I meet that I see their world and I can be their mirror, too.

And when my scene is over and I exit offstage and the lights eventually go dark, I hope that I left this world in a better place than I left it. That I will resonate in people’s memories, even for a brief moment. And for that, I am thankful for this experience, and I’m left with a more open heart and mind. That I showed up and I participated and I said ‘yes, and…’ more often. That when a person wanders onstage alone and struggling, I too would rush out and be a part of their world. That I would step up to meet them and offer my hand of kindness.

I recently visited Toronto and all of my family and friends who live there. And I found myself in moments where I caught myself looking at a friend when they didn’t notice. Maybe just glancing at their phone, or tying their shoes by the front door. And something caught in my throat. I was once again in the pure, glorious moment of it all, just like that night onstage. And I thought: How wonderful that you are right here, right now, in my life. And at the same time, knowing that one day you won’t be here in front of me anymore. A feeling of overflowing joy and sadness at the preciousness of life all at the same time.

After all, you never know when will be the last time. So please be kind to each other. And have fun, for goodness sake!

The plane that I’m on from Toronto is hurtling towards Barcelona. I’ve just said goodbye to my parents and my friends. I’m watching a movie about a man who recently lost his daughter and is visited by the characters of Love, Death and Time — those three elements of life that are intricately bound together. The man is devastated and angry at his loss, and Love says to him:

I’m the darkness and the light, I’m the sunshine and the storm. Yes, you’re right, I was there in her laugh, but I’m also here now in your pain. I’m the reason for everything. I am the only ‘why’.

And suddenly I realized that that’s what I had felt before. And because of this experience, my improv friends and community feel like a real family. We are now bound together through loss as well as great joy, and I’m eager to share the love again when we all gather for another semester of fun and laughter.

As the summer gradually comes to an end, I like to think that Nick is still off on his adventure, walking the Camino, happy and at peace in the sunlight, excited for all the new adventures that lie just around the corner. Being open to each unfolding moment and always saying ‘yes, and…’.

I can’t help but remember that film that I watched on the plane once again, near the end when a character says to the man still profoundly grieving, but ready to heal and let go:

“Just be sure to notice the collateral beauty. It’s the profound connection to everything.”

This article is dedicated to Nick Chapman — a beautiful soul who left this earth too soon — and to all his loved ones who are in pain from his loss. Know that you are not alone.