There are places in the world where you still live.
Not in the physical sense—your touch, your voice, your laughter are gone. But in moments… you remain.
You exist in the smell of rain on warm pavement, in the sound of your favorite song that plays unexpectedly in a café. In the breeze that brushes my cheek when I stand alone at the bus stop we used to share.
You're there in the soft gold of sunset, and in the silence between my thoughts.
Some nights, I talk to the sky.
I don't ask questions anymore. I know the answers won't come. But I still speak, because pretending you're not listening feels worse than talking to air.
I've learned that grief doesn't always scream. Sometimes it's just… stillness.
I see you most in my art.
Your eyes appear in faces I've never met. Your expression lives in the smile of strangers I sketch from memory. Even the colors I choose feel touched by you—shades of gold, ash blue, deep plum. Colors you once said felt like truth.
Mrs. Lee gave me your scarf last week. She said you wore it every winter but stopped last year. I took it gently, like it was glass.
It still smells faintly like you.
I keep it in my drawer.
Not to hold on too tightly.
Just enough to remember where you still exist.
Because forgetting isn't the danger.
It's losing the places where love still lingers.
And in me, Yuna…
You still do.
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