Sometimes I sit alone and wonder—if Yuna saw me now, would she recognize me?
Not just my face, which is mostly the same, except for the softer edges and the weight in my eyes.
But who I am.
Who I'm becoming.
Because something has shifted—not suddenly, but slowly, like morning light creeping across a quiet room. I don't cry as often. I don't flinch at her name. I don't avoid the places we shared.
I've started making space.
Not to replace her.
But to grow around the ache she left.
I joined a small art club. At first, I only watched. Then I started to speak—just a little. Now, I share. Not just my work, but parts of myself.
It's terrifying.
But I think that's how healing begins.
By letting others see the broken places.
One of the students asked me how I find emotion in my paintings.
I said, *"I don't. The emotion finds me."*
I didn't tell them about Yuna.
Not because I was hiding her.
But because her story is woven into every brushstroke, whether they know it or not.
I think Yuna would be proud.
Not because I'm fixed—I'm not.
But because I'm still here.
Still showing up.
Still building a life that can hold grief and joy in the same breath.
That's the person I'm becoming.
Someone who doesn't run from the past, but carries it with grace.
Someone who doesn't need to explain her pain to be understood.
Someone who loves deeply, even if it means losing.
Because loss didn't destroy me.
It shaped me.
And in that shaping, I've found something like peace.
Not perfect. Not whole.
But honest.
Real.
And mine.
—