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Sometimes I imagine you in this garden, appearing at the far gate as if you had never left. I stand by my own gate, hesitant, and at the faintest rustle of leaves, you are gone again, slipping through a path I cannot follow. When I whisper your name, the wind carries it away, and the garden holds only silence in your place. And yet, I sense you returning because this place is endless, impossible to leave behind. If only I could be apart from you, I might tend the flowers and paths as I please, pretending not to miss you. But instead, I move as you moved, pausing where you paused, and sometimes I imagine us both lingering in the same spaces, separated by shadows and memory. The garden so full of color and life that it feels hollow, haunted by you, by what has been lost, and by the spaces where you should be. I saw you in my dreams today and I sobbed hard. I hope it's not lonely out there and there are endless rivers because you love swimming. You can walk through all the libraries you wanted. I don't think I can write much with my meds aanymore. I'm mine. I don't want to explain why I choose to honour this pain. You understand me, don't you?