Time does not stop, and though wounds never fully disappear, they learn to coexist with life. Clara remained a presence in my life—a constant but quiet figure, like a distant lighthouse flickering in the fog. Our relationship had found a balance: we weren't close enough to depend on each other, but we weren't distant enough to drift apart. Clara respected my silences, and I respected hers. Occasionally, we met to talk about lighthearted things: books, movies, the weather. It was as if we both understood that our lives now followed different paths, but those paths occasionally crossed, leaving behind small traces of companionship and shared understanding.
During one of those meetings, Clara looked me directly in the eye and asked:
"Do you feel lighter?"
Her question caught me off guard, but after a moment of reflection, I nodded.
"A little, yes."
She smiled, that smile that always seemed to hold quiet wisdom.
"That's enough for now."
------------------------------
Connections in the park
The woman from the park, whose name I eventually learned was Sofía, began to occupy more space in my thoughts. Not because there was anything romantic in our interactions, but because her presence felt like a constant reminder that there was still beauty in simplicity. Sometimes we walked together; other times, we talked under our usual tree. Her words were always light but filled with meaning, like leaves floating on the wind.
One afternoon, as we watched a group of children chasing a kite that seemed ready to escape into the sky, Sofía broke the silence with a question I never expected.
"Have you ever thought about what you'd leave behind if everything ended tomorrow?"
Her question hit me like an unexpected wave. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting her words settle in my mind.
"I don't know. I guess I'd leave behind my words."
She nodded, thoughtful, as the wind stirred her hair.
"That's more than most people can say."
Her words stayed with me. That night, as I wrote in my notebook, I found myself meditating on what it meant to leave a legacy. The burned letters to Astrid had been my way of setting myself free, but what was I building now? What would I leave in the world that wasn't marked by pain?
------------------------------
A new purpose
It was then that I decided to do something I hadn't considered before: share my writings. Not as a confession, but as a gift. I started by posting anonymous texts on an online forum. The words that had once been private and burdened with pain now went out into the world, transformed into something else.
Readers—strangers, distant and unknown—responded with comments that often brought tears to my eyes.
"Your words helped me see that I'm not alone."
"Thank you for writing what I can't express."
Each message made me feel less invisible, less isolated in my own pain. It was as if the cracks I carried within me were connecting with the cracks in others, and together, we were finding a way to heal.
Sofía was the first person I told. When I shared it with her one afternoon under our tree, she simply smiled.
"I knew you'd do it. People like you can't keep everything to themselves."
------------------------------
The return to the beach
One weekend, I decided to face a place I had avoided for years: the small, hidden beach far from the city where Astrid and I used to go together. The last time I had been there was with her, and the memory was so vivid I could still hear her laughter mingling with the sound of the waves.
When I arrived, the beach was deserted. The wind blew strong, fresh, and salty, but the sun warmed the sand beneath my feet. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the waves fill my mind. It was an echo of something familiar, but also new, as if the place had changed as much as I had.
I walked toward the shore and sat down, letting the cold water touch my shoes. I pulled out my notebook and began to write.
Writing there felt different, as if the words flowed directly from the place itself, imbued with the echo of what once was. I wrote about Astrid, but also about Sofía, about Clara, about myself. I wrote about pain, about hope, and about the endless process of learning to live with both.
As I wrote, memories of Astrid in that same beach surfaced: how she used to draw hearts in the sand only to watch the waves wash them away, laughing as she did it. But this time, those memories didn't hurt. They felt warm, like a soft light illuminating the path I now walked alone.
------------------------------
The realization
As the waves receded, leaving footprints in the sand that would soon disappear, I realized something important. It wasn't just Astrid that I was leaving behind; it was the version of myself that relied on her to find meaning. For the first time, I felt whole in my incompleteness, as if the cracks in my being were precisely what made me human.
When I returned home that evening, I received a message from Sofía. It was simple, but it made me smile.
"Sometimes, what you write makes more sense to others than it does to you. But that doesn't make it any less real."
I stared at her message for a moment before turning off the light. That night, I slept deeply, with the sound of the waves still echoing in my mind, like a whisper telling me I was on the right path.