The Day After

It's strange. The further back I go, the clearer everything feels. Retracing our steps makes her hand reappear in mine, her laughter caress my ears, her eyes glimmer with light whenever she's joyful. I think of the beginning, when we crashed into each other, apologizing frantically. And when she asked for my number, as if it held no significance. Back then, I had no idea what such a small incident could lead to. Now I do.

The rain stops as I arrive at the cemetery. I wander through the long rows of people who've long since departed from this world. The bundle of flowers in my hands feels heavier than it is, weighed down by the tears that roll off my cheeks and onto the stems. I follow the rows until I reach it: the stone cross jutting from the ground, etched with a name and two dates. Her name. Her lifetime.

I stare for a long moment, feeling the unfairness of it all. Then I take a deep breath and lay the flowers at the foot of the cross. My mind runs wild, but my memories speak in mountains. If I could live it all again - the bus rides, the cafés, the adventures, the nights curled together on the couch - every single day we were together - I would. Even knowing it would end the same way.

Because, if I’m honest, she changed me. She changed me for the better. She taught me that every week, every day, every hour, can mean so much.

As I dry my tears on my jacket sleeve and linger for a final moment, I’m comforted by the fact that I still carry her with me - not as sorrow or regret, but as love. Some people aren’t meant to be forgotten.