There was a night—months after everything—when I stood on the rooftop alone.
The same rooftop where we used to watch the stars, where you once said, "Maybe some people are born to disappear quietly." I remember that night so clearly. The wind was sharp, the city lights below blurred by the fog of memory.
And I almost didn't come back down.
I don't say that lightly.
Grief is heavy in a way no one can explain unless they've carried it. It whispers things. Lies, mostly. That you'll never feel okay again. That the person you were died with them. That staying is a punishment.
But I thought of you.
And the way you smiled, even when you were breaking.
The way you reached for me through your sadness and tried to leave pieces of yourself behind—just in case I ever forgot how much I meant to you.
I didn't forget.
And that night, I chose to stay.
Not because it didn't hurt.
But because you loved me too much for me to stop loving myself.
I climbed down slowly, tears on my cheeks, breath shaking—but I climbed down.
Since then, every hard day has felt like a quiet kind of victory.
Every sunrise feels earned.
Staying is not about pretending it's easy.
It's about knowing that even through the worst of it, there's still beauty waiting.
And love.
And laughter.
And maybe even another chance to start over.
You didn't stay, Yuna.
But I did.
Because your love taught me how.
And that will always be enough reason to keep going.
—