There were days when I didn't think of you right away.
Days when I woke up to sunlight, stretched beneath my blanket, made tea, and started my routine… without the ache. Without the instant pull to memory.
And when I realized it—hours later, maybe—I froze.
Guilt hit like a wave.
*How could I forget?*
*How could I go hours without thinking of her?*
But then something quiet inside me whispered: *This is healing, too.*
Not forgetting.
Just… living.
There's a strange kind of grief in healing. No one warns you about it. They tell you it gets easier, that time softens the pain. But they don't tell you how the softening feels like betrayal sometimes.
Like letting go of the hurt means letting go of the love.
But it doesn't.
You're still with me, Yuna. Just differently.
In those quiet days—when I don't speak your name, when I laugh without tears, when I walk without searching the crowds for your face—you're still there. In the warmth. In the quiet strength you helped me build.
There was one day in spring—I spent it in the garden behind the art school. I sat alone, sketching a flower blooming through a crack in the stone wall.
And I thought of you.
Not with pain, but with peace.
And then, hours later, I realized… I had smiled. A real smile.
You would've liked that.
You used to say, *"Don't let the sorrow take all your colors."*
I think I'm starting to believe I haven't.
Some of the brightest colors I use now are ones you gave me. The ones you painted into me when you said I was more than my fear. More than my silence. More than what I'd been through.
So if some days pass and I don't cry for you…
If I forget to visit the bench or reread your letters…
It's not because I've forgotten.
It's because I've grown.
You live in me, even when you're not at the front of my thoughts.
Even on the days I almost forget—
I remember.
In my breath.
In my art.
In the life you helped me reclaim.
—