If you were still here, Yuna…
I think about that more often than I admit.
Would we still be walking to class together, arguing over music?
Would you still be sketching people on the bus when you thought no one noticed?
Would we still be making late-night ramen and laughing at our own dumb jokes?
Sometimes I imagine it—so vividly it hurts.
You bursting into my room, waving some new idea, dragging me into your chaos.
You sitting beside me at the gallery, hand slipping into mine like it belonged there.
I wonder what you'd say if you saw my latest painting.
Would you tilt your head, smile that crooked smile, and say, *"Finally, you're painting like you mean it"?*
I think you would.
But then I remember… you *are* here.
Not in the way I wish.
Not in the flesh, not in laughter, not in late-night texts.
But you're here in the choices I make.
In how I let people in again.
In how I face hard days with softness.
You're here every time I stand in front of a blank canvas and don't give up.
I still miss you.
I always will.
But missing you isn't a weight anymore.
It's a part of me.
If you were still here, maybe things would be brighter.
Easier.
But because you're not…
I live harder.
Love deeper.
Hold on to the little moments like they're everything.
Because I know now—they are.
If you were still here, I'd tell you one thing:
*Thank you.*
For loving me the way you did.
For leaving me with enough of you to carry forward.
For showing me that even in the shadow of goodbye…
Love still lives.
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