I don't think this letter will reach you, and perhaps, that is the only reason I have the courage to write it. Writing to you feels like throwing a stone into a deep, dark lake—I know there will be no echo, no ripple returning to shore, just the quiet acceptance of gravity.

I’ve been cleaning up my old files recently. I found a folder of photos, some half-finished conversations, and a few links I saved, thinking, “I must show this to you.” It’s a strange habit, isn’t it? The way the mind refuses to accept absence. Even now, when I see the first snow of the season or solve a particularly difficult problem, my first instinct is still to turn around and share it with you. It takes a second for the reality to settle in: the chair is empty, the signal is lost.

They say time is a healer, but I find time is more of a filter. It washes away the arguments, the misunderstandings, and the pride that kept us silent. What’s left behind are the shining fragments of what we could have been. I regret the times I chose to be right instead of being kind. I regret the assumptions I made—that there would always be a “tomorrow” to fix things, a “next time” to say what really mattered.

We were like two lines intersecting at a precise angle, sharing a single, brilliant point in time, only to diverge further apart with every passing second. I used to think we drifted apart because the world was too big; now I realize we drifted because I didn’t hold on tight enough when the currents changed.

I hope you are doing well. I hope you found the answers you were looking for, or perhaps, found peace in not knowing.

I am learning to live with the silence you left behind. It’s not heavy anymore; it’s just… there. A quiet part of the furniture of my life.

Be safe, wherever you are.

Yours, Breeze