The sunrise found me awake, as it often had in the past, but this time there was a subtle difference: no anxiety, just a faint haze of calm. I stared at the bare walls of my room, feeling them less oppressive, as though the weight in the air had shifted.
It had been weeks since my last emotional relapse. That didn't mean everything was fine, but I had learned that pain does not completely define a person; their attempts to heal do.
------------------------------
The power of words
The library, with its usual stillness, felt like the only place where ideas and emotions could flow without restraint. I had gone there looking for something, though I didn't know exactly what. My footsteps echoed softly as I walked between the shelves, the weight of the past few days pressing on my chest.
Among the aisles, I recognized her: Sofía. She was immersed in a book, her brow slightly furrowed and her lips moving as if reading softly to herself. It was an image that had always struck me as oddly comforting.
I approached her carefully, not wanting to interrupt her too abruptly.
"Inspiration, or just an escape?" I asked playfully.
Sofía looked up and smiled at me.
"Both. Though I don't think you're here just for either."
"What makes you think that?" I replied, settling next to her on the bench.
"Because I know you. And because I can tell that your words are already traveling far."
I knew exactly what she was referring to. We had talked before about the responses my posts had received on the forum, and although I initially resisted accepting it, I had gradually come to understand that my writing was not only helping me heal, but also others.
"I don't know if 'traveling far' is the right term," I joked, trying to downplay it. "I'm just writing what I feel."
Sofía set her book down on her lap and looked at me seriously, though not harshly.
"That's exactly why it matters. You might not realize it, but many people have said that your words give them a little bit of clarity in their darkest moments."
I nodded slowly, recalling some of the comments I had read in recent weeks. Some were brief, like "Thank you, I needed this." Others were longer, confessions from people also grappling with their own losses, searching for solace amidst their storms.
"I guess it's still hard for me to process," I admitted.
"You don't have to fully understand it," Sofía replied. "But at the very least, you should know that what you're doing makes an impact. And that matters."
We spent the rest of the afternoon walking between the shelves, talking about books and life. Sofía always had this way of making me feel less alone, less lost. As I listened to her talk about her favorite novels, I couldn't help but think about how, without even looking for it, I had found a lighthouse in the middle of the storm.
------------------------------
The envelope with no sender
That conversation stayed with me as I walked home. I had written so much in recent months, but always with a sense of anonymity, as if it weren't entirely real. That evening, as I checked the mailbox, I found an envelope with no return address. Inside was a letter and a photograph.
The photo was of Astrid and me, taken years ago at a summer fair. I was smiling with my arms crossed, while she held a red balloon and looked at the camera with a radiant expression. The letter contained just one sentence, written in a simple, familiar hand:
"I hope you find what you're looking for."
The pain returned, accompanied by a flood of memories I thought I had left behind. For a moment, I wanted to close the envelope, tuck the photo away, and pretend I had never seen it. But I forced myself to face it. I sat on the couch, holding the photo in my hands, letting myself feel every emotion it brought: sadness, nostalgia, but also gratitude.
I didn't know who had sent the envelope, but I realized it didn't matter. It was a reminder of what I had lost, but also of what I had learned.
------------------------------
The final goodbye
That night, I decided it was time to say goodbye to Astrid in a more definitive way. I opened my journal and began to write one last entry—a letter that would never be sent:
"Astrid,
I loved you with everything I had, and I lost you with just as much weight. But now I understand that love doesn't always mean staying. Sometimes, it means letting go. Thank you for the moments we shared, and for teaching me that even in loss, there's room to grow. Goodbye."
When I finished writing, I closed the journal and placed it back on the shelf. I didn't feel immediate relief, but neither did I feel the emptiness that would have consumed me before. It was a quiet goodbye, not a battle.
------------------------------
The dream with my past self
That same night, I dreamed. Not of Astrid, but of the version of myself I had been when she was in my life. I saw him standing in an open field, under a gray, heavy sky. He wore the same clothes I used to wear back then, his shoulders hunched under an invisible weight.
For the first time, I didn't feel the need to approach him. Instead, I watched from a distance. The wind began to blow hard, rustling the leaves and grass around him. Little by little, the wind enveloped him, carrying his figure away until he disappeared into the horizon.
I woke up with tears in my eyes, but not from sadness. It felt as though the dream had freed me from a part of myself I no longer needed.