At first, I thought the pain would kill me.
Every breath felt sharp, like glass in my lungs. Every morning was another reminder that you weren’t here.

But slowly, almost without noticing, I began to breathe again.
One day, I laughed — and it surprised me.
One morning, I woke up and the weight was still there, but lighter.
One evening, I realized I had gone hours without thinking of you, and guilt burned me for it.

Healing doesn’t look like forgetting.
It looks like learning to live with absence.
It looks like carrying love and grief in the same heart, and finding space for both.

I will never be the same. But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe love leaves marks not to break us, but to shape us into something stronger, softer, more human.

And so I breathe.
Not the way I used to, not without ache — but I breathe. And that is enough for now.

Always and Forever