An open letter is supposed to be a farewell, a way to close a chapter that stayed too long. But what if I’m not ready for that? What if turning the last page feels like losing the only proof that it ever mattered? You say hurricanes don’t last, but the quiet after the storm scares me more than the wreckage. At least the pain is familiar—something to hold onto when everything else feels distant. I know I should let go, but a part of me still waits, still hopes, still fears that once I stop grieving, I’ll lose even the memory of what was. Maybe I’m not strong enough to quit this… not yet. (tomydeadpoetry—lamuerte)