The days after your departure felt like walking through a faded painting—colors muted, edges blurry. The world continued spinning, but my heart was caught in the silence you left behind.
I found myself standing before my canvas more often, brush in hand but no idea what to create. The blankness on the canvas mirrored the emptiness inside me. How could I paint without you here?
Then I opened your second letter.
*In-ha,*
*I want you to remember me not as a shadow but as the light we shared. Paint with the colors we dreamed of—sunsets, dawns, and the endless skies.*
*When you feel lost, close your eyes and see me in every shade of red, every hue of gold.*
*I'm with you.*
Your words were both a balm and a blade, soothing but cutting through my numbness.
Slowly, I started to paint again.
At first, dark strokes of grief and pain.
Then bursts of warm colors—fiery reds, soft pinks, hopeful yellows.
Each painting became a letter back to you, a conversation we never finished.
People noticed the change in my art. Mr. Nam said my paintings carried emotion like never before.
But only I knew the secret behind those colors—the love and loss they held.
Through the pain, I found healing in creation.
Your voice was in every brushstroke, reminding me that goodbye wasn't the end.
It was the beginning of a new kind of love—one carried in memories and art.
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