There was a time when I couldn't say your name out loud.
It caught in my throat like glass.
Too sharp. Too sacred.
Even hearing others say it felt like a storm rising in my chest.
But something has changed.
It happened slowly—like all healing does.
The first time I whispered it during a conversation.
The first time I told someone new about you, without breaking down.
The first time I laughed while saying your name, remembering something ridiculous you did.
Yuna.
Four letters.
But they hold an entire universe for me.
Now, when I say your name, it feels different.
Not like pain.
Like presence.
Like you're sitting beside me again, smirking at my awkwardness, nudging me to speak louder.
Like you're proud when I talk about you, not as someone I lost—but someone who lived. Who loved. Who changed me.
A friend recently asked me, "Who was Yuna?"
And I didn't freeze.
I said, "She was everything soft and wild. She was sunlight on bad days. She was the reason I started painting with my heart."
They just nodded.
And I realized I didn't have to explain more.
Your name—your memory—it carries its own weight. Its own beauty.
I say your name now without flinching.
I write it in the margins of my journal.
I paint it into skies, into corners of my canvases, hidden in strokes only I know to look for.
Yuna.
You don't haunt me anymore.
You hold me.
And when I say your name, it's not goodbye.
It's a way of bringing you back into the light.
—