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Hey. I don't know if this will ever find you, or if it even should. But if it does, someday, or somehow, I hope by then, we can remember it all in a way that softens the edges of what we couldn't hold.  Before the beginning, I kept buying myself more time. Telling myself I needed it. More days, more weeks, more moments to understand you, to understand us, to think until I drowned, to stop thinking when it hurt too much, to feel what I kept denying, to forgive what I didn't want to admit, to quiet the storm inside, to loosen my grip, to finally let you go. But every time I said: not today, maybe later, maybe after the next small milestones. After we met. After a week. After your special day. After my birthday. After yours. After December 21. God, it stings just naming that date. And maybe I would keep doing that. Keep pushing the line further away, making excuses, inventing new deadlines just so I could write you back into existence. So I could keep you here, on the page, ev...
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It’s your birthday today.

You never liked birthdays. I always wanted to celebrate you. Maybe that’s why we’re not here. It’s your birthday today. Last year, when the day ended, I told myself. Next year, I’d do better. Next year, you’d feel safer. I thought I could give you that. It’s your birthday today. I hope you’re kinder to yourself. Or maybe I’m still pretending I know what’s best for you. It’s your birthday today, and I still hope you heal. The kind that makes you believe. Or maybe I’m still arrogant to think I ever knew enough of you. It’s your birthday today. May your life be long. Your patience, your strength. Your feelings. The ones that make you laugh like the world’s still worth it, or the ones that push you to do whatever it takes. I really hope you find what’s yours. And it finds you. I hope nothing but the best, for you. Today is your birthday. Happy birthday.
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Maybe someday, or next week, I’ll finally forget you.

Because today, I still love you. Maybe it’s not even you anymore, but the version of you I kept safe in my head. Maybe that’s why the feeling still stays like they haven't heard the news. Because I keep thinking. Maybe you were just as lost, and just as hurt. That maybe the only reason we bled was because we didn’t know how else to hold our pain. And so the words we said only sounded like weapons. I keep thinking that someday, you’ll find answers you haven’t yet found the words for. And I once wondered: is it love when we believe in it, or is it love when we accept what it never was? I still don’t know. But I do know this: I still check in on you. Still care about things you won’t share. Still wonder about how your heart is doing today. So maybe not now. Because now, you still live somewhere in me. Even when you’ve long been gone. And maybe not yet. Because there are things I still want to write. Yours, I still want to hold space for. And this one thing I still want to say: I still...
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