The sky hadn't changed, not really.
It still stretched wide and blue, still turned gold at dusk and melted into black velvet at night. But it felt different now.
Colder.
Quieter.
Lonelier.
It was the first spring without you.
The ginkgo trees were budding again, their leaves just beginning to unfurl, but instead of hope, I felt hollow. I walked past the rooftop where we met. The door creaked the same way it always did. The wind was gentle that day. But you weren't there.
You would never be there again.
I sat down at our spot, legs crossed, notebook in my lap. Not your notebook—mine. A new one. The first I started since you left.
I flipped to the first page.
*Chapter One: A Sky Without You.*
I began writing. About us. About the things we said and didn't say. About how grief feels like waking up in someone else's life. About how healing doesn't mean erasing pain—it means learning to live with it like a second heartbeat.
I didn't cry that day.
Not because I didn't miss you.
But because for once, missing you didn't break me. It just reminded me how deeply I had loved—and how deeply I still could.
You taught me that.
You gave me that.
The wind brushed past, lifting the edge of the page, and I smiled.
Somewhere, I believed, you were watching the same sky.
And maybe, just maybe, it didn't feel so empty after all.
—