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There were 200 people at the funeral. 199 of them wore black. I was the one wearing words. I didn't realise until I was already inside. Already standing in the back. Already watching his family walk past the coffin. Some cousin I hadn't seen since childhood. 26 years old. Took his own life three days before. I wasn't close to him. Barely knew him really. But you show up. That's what family does. I'd grabbed a black hoodie that morning. Didn't check which one. Didn't think about it. Stood in the corner. Kept my head down. Tried to be invisible. But I wasn't invisible. I noticed people looking at me. Quick glances. Double takes. At first I thought they were judging me for standing in the back. Not sitting with family. Being distant. Then a teenage girl walked up to me. His younger sister. 16. Eyes swollen. Hands shaking. She stopped in front of me. Just stared. "Can I see your back?" she asked. I didn't understand. But I turned around. She stood there for a long time. Reading. Breathing. When I turned back, she was crying harder than before. "He would have loved that," she said. "He would have wanted one." That's when I looked down. Saw what I was wearing. "You're Enough." My throat closed. I'd worn it to his funeral. This message about staying alive. To a funeral for someone who didn't. I wanted to disappear. Rip it off. Run. But she grabbed my hand. "Don't," she said. "Don't be embarrassed. I've been reading it since you walked in. I think... I think maybe he would have wanted people to see it. Here. Today." I stood there. At her brother's funeral. While she held my hand and read my back. Then she asked: "Where can I get one?" I told her. She ordered three that night. One for her. One for her mum. One to donate in her brother's name. A month later, I saw her at another family gathering. She was wearing it. So was her mum. They wear it together now. Everywhere. His sister told me something that day that I'll never forget. "He died because he didn't believe he was enough. So we're going to spend the rest of our lives telling everyone else that they are. Every person who stands behind us. Every stranger in every queue. They're going to read what he needed to hear." She's 16 years old. And she turned her brother's death into a mission. I wore it to the wrong funeral. But somehow, it became the right message. Front says "You're Enough." Back says "Dear person behind me, the world is a better place with you in it. Love, the person in front of you." 199 people wore black that day. I wore words. And those words are still spreading.