Love doesn't disappear. It lingers.
It's in the chipped mug you used every morning, still sitting on the shelf like you'll come back for it. It's in the playlist you made me—your favorite songs shuffled into moments that now sting with beauty. It's in the scent of paint and rain, in every ginkgo leaf that falls just right.
What love leaves behind isn't always loud. Sometimes, it's a whisper at the back of your mind.
*"Remember me."*
I do.
Every single day.
I used to think love ended when someone left. That it crumbled, like old letters or burnt-out candles. But I've come to see it differently now.
Love… it plants itself deep. Quiet roots.
And even after the person is gone, it keeps blooming in strange, unexpected places.
In kindness I show to strangers.
In the way I listen more, speak softer.
In how I now know the weight of someone's absence can make you love those who remain even harder.
You left, Yuna.
But your love didn't.
It stayed. It made a home in my chest, fragile but alive.
It made me softer. It made me stronger.
And as much as it hurts, I'm grateful.
Because what love leaves behind isn't only sorrow.
It's memory.
It's growth.
It's the strength to keep painting, keep breathing, keep finding beauty in a world you're no longer part of.
I picked up a photo of us today.
You were laughing—head thrown back, joy unfiltered. I stared at it for a long time, then placed it on my desk. Not because I needed to remember you… but because I wanted to honor you.
Not with mourning.
But with life.
You loved fully. Quietly. Deeply.
And I'll carry that with me.
Always.
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