One morning, I stood before the mirror my losses etched across my face. Staring back was someone who despised me. How cruel self-loathing can be. Some days, memory drags me to my harshest hours to an old love in an older heart, to the moment my convictions shifted. I never left people without reason, yet I could never fill the voids they left behind. A wound, dealt by those I cherished, taught me this: those closest are often the ones we most need to leave. Only one truth remains my reflection’s love endures. But the love of others? A myth I can no longer believe. And what is the soul’s departure if not an ending? For death doesn’t always come in silence. How many of the living do I already treat as if they’re gone?