When I think of our story, it feels like a stochastic process. not completely random, not fully predictable either. yes, there was chaos, but it was a chaos that seemed finely calculated to arrive at a certain moment. it was you who wanted to stay, and it was me who always wanted to come back. we kept trying to find an ending to something we kept beginning again and again, yet we never truly found one. maybe because, deep down, neither of us was ready for an end. we did not want it to end. so instead of finishing, we learned how to pause. In those pauses, we each disappeared in our own way. I would live in my head, somewhere above the sky, detached, floating, convincing myself that distance was clarity. and you would drown quietly in a sadness you never announced, carrying it in silence for a while. yet somehow, even after all that distance, we would always find a way back to each other, as if returning was part of the process itself. When I try to see our story visually, it becomes two random lines. one white, which is you, and one black, which is me. I keep oscillating wildly, for long stretches, deviating far from the middle where we were supposed to align. my movement is erratic, impulsive, almost careless. you also deviated and oscillated, but not with the same randomness. your path had a quieter pattern, a restraint mine never had. There were moments when you were far away, moments when the distance felt undeniable. and there were moments when I was the one drifting too far to recognize where we last met. but then there were those rare points where the lines intersected. in those intersections, we felt something, perhaps clarity, perhaps relief, perhaps just recognition. but it never lasted long. it was only an intersection, brief and fragile, and then the same cycle would begin again, repeating itself as if it had learned nothing. Still, those two traveling lines were never truly separate. despite all the deviation, all the oscillation, they always seemed meant to return to each other at some point. not to merge, not to settle, but to cross again. and maybe that is what our story has always been. not an ending, not a resolution, but a repeated return.

Maybe one day we will cry about how hard it was. because it was hard. it carried despair and pain for both of us, even when we tried to pretend otherwise. there were moments where surviving felt like the only thing we were doing, not living. and maybe that is why happiness always felt incomplete, as if something essential was left untouched. We cannot be truly happy unless we return to those places where we hurt each other in the past. not to reopen wounds carelessly, but to acknowledge that they existed. maybe it will take years to process them. they were not ordinary memories, they were core memories, touched by sadness until they faded into a pale blue. that heavy, depressing blue that stays quietly in the background of everything else. But colors change. those memories can turn yellow again. not by ignoring them, but by feeling the hurt once more, by recognizing it, by letting it exist without running away from it. healing does not come from avoiding pain, but from allowing ourselves to look at it honestly. so do not be afraid of feeling the hurt. For now, I am here. and I will try to be good. good in the ways I once failed to be. good for all the times I never could.