“The day the music died.” 

The lyric from Don McLean’s "American Pie" was the first string of words that popped into my head when I was told that our friend Matt French had passed away in a house fire on January 7, 2026. Just six days after we had last seen him, the paper read: “An unidentified 27-year-old male has died in a house fire.” 

Unidentified stripped the breath out of my lungs. That is my good friend, he is incredible, and they say unidentifiable. Bullshit. 

Matthew French had the best taste in music, the best taste in movies, and the only gripe I ever had with him was that he got openly embarrassed when I used Shazam at the bar. When he walked into a room, you could not help but feel at ease. At ease because you didn’t have to try to be the funniest guy in the room—he already was. At ease because having Matt French as your friend made the world a little easier to chew. 

If you ever asked him if he needed anything, he would always reply “I’m good.” When he didn’t agree with a statement, he would raise his eyebrows over his 1950s-style glasses and exhale sharply to himself. He never outwardly expressed physical discomfort; he would curl up on our couch with no blankets (I would leave them out for him) and fall right to sleep. After fracturing his elbow racing down George Street, we repeatedly asked if he was alright.

“I’m good,” he said. 

He came back to my place and sat through the entirety of David Fincher’s Seven without a complaint, taking a Y-Drive to the hospital after the movie was over. We were none the wiser till he came over a few weeks later. 

When we were together with our close friends, and Noah would be making us all laugh, I often found myself looking to him. He had a soft smile that would pull up into his cheek and brighten the darkest corner of any basement or barroom. And the moment he laughed, really laughed, you could not help but laugh with him. 

He would drop anything to meet you for good food and a movie, if you were free. And if you weren’t, no worries. See you next time. But like a good friend, he would always call me on my borderline agoraphobia if I stayed in too long. He was honest and fair—a rare breed these days. 

If he stayed the night after too many beers and too many laughs, he always needed to get home the next day for his beloved cat, Felix. 

Matt French had to work hard for everything he received in his short life, except for the love of those who knew him. To know him was to love him. 

He had just started working at the hospital, and as a master storyteller, he would regale all of us with wild stories that I soaked up eagerly. He cared deeply about his team and the people he was protecting. I asked him on New Year’s Eve if he would ever write a book. He laughed and said “Maybe one day.” 

We were supposed to share an apartment with Claire in the spring. We were supposed to go to Toronto at the end of the month and try swanky restaurants we couldn’t afford, and peruse the AGO. We were supposed to watch The Bone Kingdom, Trainspotting 2, and the sequel to Fight Club—whenever David Fincher gets around to directing it. He was supposed to become a pilot and fly all over the world. We were supposed to do so many things, but life got in the way one too many times. 

Even as I write this, I keep thinking he’s going to call, and I hope that somewhere, he’s making fun of me for writing all of this. 

Frenchy, the best Christmas I ever had was with you, Austin, and Robert Eggers' Nosferatu.

I hope to be sitting across from you at a bar table someday, arguing over Sopranos trivia. And okay, French, I’ll finally watch The Wire. Oh, and one more thing, you were right, by the way: Frank Valli originally released “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore,” not The Walker Brothers. 

I love you. It would never have been enough time, and what a gift the time I had with you was.

‍Justice

The friends and coworkers of Matthew French are currently fundraising to cover Matthew's funeral and cremation expenses via GoFundMe, with all proceeds going to Matthew's family to assist with the sudden cost burden.