When I die, do not bury me with my favorite hoodie, my journal, or the headphones I used to escape into noise. Instead, place a photograph in my front pocket, not as proof of possession, but as a reminder of a season in my life when I learned what it meant to feel deeply human. Let it be folded softly, edges worn not from obsession, but from memory, like something revisited in quiet moments, not clung to in desperation. And if there is anything to sew into me, let it not be sound trapped in my ribs, but the echo of laughter I once heard that made ordinary days feel lighter than they had any right to be. Let her name rest gently in the spaces I once filled with noise, so that even in silence, there is something that reminds me I was once capable of softness, of gratitude, of learning how to care. Tell them she wasn’t responsible for fixing what was broken in me. But she existed in a time where I started trying to piece myself back together. And if I ever stand before anything like a final doorway, white, bright, unfamiliar, do not let me measure my life only in achievements or endings. Let me speak honestly. Let me say I was once known by moments that mattered, not because I owned them, but because I lived through them. Let me say my biggest accomplishment was not being loved perfectly, or endlessly, or completely. but learning how to love someone, and still learning how to become someone worth loving back, even after they are gone from my story. And if I reach for that photograph in my pocket one last time, let it not feel like loss but like proof that I was here, I felt, I changed, and I kept going.