I started writing letters to you again, Yuna.
Not in a journal or notebook, but on paper—folded and left in places only you and I would understand. I left one beneath the old ginkgo tree, tucked into the crevice of the bench where we'd sit and let the silence speak for us. Another by the rooftop railing, where your hair once danced in the wind, your laughter echoing under the sky.
Each letter carried what I never had the courage to say when you were here.
*Dear Yuna,*
*Today, I walked past the street where we used to race the bus. You always won. I smiled, but my chest ached. I miss you. I miss who I was when you were around.*
Sometimes I imagine you're reading them. I picture you smiling, shaking your head, saying, *"In-ha, you always did write better than you spoke."*
I still carry the scarf your mother gave me. It's in my coat pocket, and on colder days, I wear it just to feel close to you. The fabric smells faintly of lavender and winter. Like you.
Mrs. Lee's stopped crying as often. She invited me in for tea the other evening. We didn't talk much—just sat in your old room. Nothing had changed. Your books still lined the shelf. The sketch of the two of us still hung on your wall. She said she couldn't bear to take anything down yet.
"I like feeling her here," she whispered.
I nodded. I understood. We're all holding onto pieces of you.
I wonder sometimes—if I had told you everything sooner, would it have changed anything?
Maybe not your fate. But maybe the weight you carried would've been lighter.
There's so much I regret not saying.
Like how I admired your quiet strength.
How your silence taught me more than a thousand conversations ever could.
How the world felt brighter just by standing next to you.
I wrote that in one of the letters, folded it, and let the wind carry it from the rooftop.
Maybe it reached you.
Maybe it didn't.
But I like to believe you know.
That you hear the pages fluttering, the whispered words, the soft footfalls retracing old steps.
I'm still here, Yuna.
Still loving you.
Still learning how to live in a world where you're no longer breathing but still everywhere.
And every letter I write isn't just for you.
It's for me, too.
To keep going.
To keep remembering.
To heal.
And so, I'll keep writing.
Until the wind carries me to wherever you are.
—