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Are some questions just never meant to have answers?

Because I’m starting to realize, this endless chase for meaning, this obsession with understanding, this obligation to explain, this stubborn grip on what’s already slipping—it’s not hope. It’s just my mind, shielding me from the fall.

But if I stop, if I let things be, if I really stop looking, caring, wishing, trying. Then it will truly be over. And the ending won’t be fate’s doing, but mine.

How am I supposed to endure that kind of loss? How could I forgive myself for losing him.

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