An Open Letter to the Person I Lost.

There’s a corner of the world that only exists in my memory now, a quiet stairway outside your lab, where we used to sit with coffee in our hands and nothing urgent to say. 

We were both students then, trying to balance deadlines and dreams. You were working at the research lab, always focused, always striving. I didn’t say it often, but I admired you deeply for that. You made ambition look graceful. 

I would sometimes stop by, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. Because even ten minutes with you on those stairs felt like a pause from everything else. We didn’t need big words. A sip of coffee, a shared silence, maybe a small smile. It was enough. 

I think those were some of the most peaceful moments of my life. The world was rushing around us, but we were still. 

If I could go back to one moment, just one, it might be one of those. You beside me, sunlight slipping through the railings, and the warmth of your presence more comforting than the coffee in my hand. 

I wonder if you remember it too. 

Y.Y 

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