Hi.
Some days, I try to remember the exact sound of your voice.
The way it softened at the end of a sentence.
The way your smile lingered just a second longer, as if you were quietly reassuring me that I was never alone.
You made me believe someone had my back.
Wherever you are now, I hope the light is kinder.
I hope you are lighter.
I hold on to that hope when the missing feels heavy.
You left too soon.
Life kept moving after you were gone. I moved with it — uncertain, slower, different. Sometimes you visit me in dreams, and for a few fragile moments, it feels like nothing changed. I wake up both grateful and aching.
Your birthday passed.
But you will forever stay young in my memory — suspended in laughter, in song, in warmth.
I still watch your videos when the longing grows loud.
I still look at your pictures when I need to feel close to you.
The pain hasn’t disappeared.
It has only learned how to sit quietly beside me.
I’m turning twenty-six soon.
You were right about something I once argued with you about — home.
I remember saying, “I want to leave this place.”
And you said, “One day, you’ll miss home.”
You were right.
I went home last Wednesday. I stayed for three nights. It felt smaller than I remembered, but warmer too. Now I am back — back to work, back to building a life that keeps unfolding without you in it.
Sometimes I complain about everything.
Then I remember that someone else might be wishing for the very life I’m living. So I breathe. I steady myself. I continue.
If you were still here, would you come visit?
Would we sit side by side and talk about the years that slipped between us?
You would encourage me to pursue med school.
You would remind me that I worked hard to be where I am.
You would tell me not to doubt myself so much.
And I would tell you about my work — about the silly mistakes, the friends who became family, the quiet lessons adulthood keeps teaching me.
And we would laugh.
We always laughed.
I wish you were here.
I wish you were still here.
You would be so proud that I started this website. I can almost hear you telling me to print my words, to let them live on paper, to let ink make them real.
You were one of my biggest believers.
I am learning to live with the space you left behind.
Not around it. Not over it.
But with it.
I still regret not seeing you one last time.
Sometimes I stare at your message in my inbox — the one I never replied to. I wonder if answering sooner would have changed anything. If you would have left knowing everything between us was okay.
You said I made you happy.
You made me happy too.
When we meet again — in whatever form eternity allows — I will tell you about everything you missed. I will tell you about the woman I am still becoming.
Because you are the older sister my heart still reaches for.
And I will live my life fully — not as if you didn’t leave, but as if your belief in me never did.
Missing you always,
Chu’uy