Time doesn't heal everything.
It softens the edges, dulls the sharpness, maybe makes the ache less constant. But some things—like you—are too deeply etched to ever fade completely.
At first, I was afraid to forget.
Not the big things, but the little ones.
The way your fingers tapped to the beat of your music.
The sound of your laugh when you weren't pretending.
The shape of your smile when it was real—when it was mine.
So I wrote everything down.
In journals, on sketchbook pages, even in margins of old textbooks. I'd scribble moments, fragments, thoughts—anything to keep you close. My room turned into a shrine of memories, each page like a thread tying you to this world.
But still, some things began to blur.
Your voice in my head grew quieter.
Your scent—once warm and familiar—started slipping away.
That scared me more than anything.
Because forgetting felt like losing you all over again.
One night, I woke up in a panic. I couldn't remember your face clearly. I ran to my sketchbook, flipping through every drawing I'd made of you.
There you were.
Smiling. Eyes closed. Hair blowing in the wind.
I sat on the floor and cried. Not loud. Just quietly, like the way grief sometimes sits beside you—silent, heavy, patient.
Then I opened the next letter.
*In-ha,*
*You're probably scared you'll forget me. I know that fear. I had it, too. But memories aren't meant to stay perfect. They change because we change.*
*You don't need to remember everything exactly as it was. Just remember how I made you feel.*
*That's enough.*
I held the letter to my chest and whispered, "You made me feel alive."
And for the first time in weeks, I smiled through the tears.
I realized then…
Love doesn't disappear when memories fade.
It just finds new ways to stay.
In silence.
In brushstrokes.
In the spaces between heartbeats.
You were still here.
Just in a different form.
And I would carry you—always.
—