Journal

Dear Self,

Today was one of those days that slipped by softly. No rush, no noise, no heavy plans. I finally followed my doctor's advice to rest, and for once, I actually did. I stayed inside my apartment the whole day, letting the stillness wrap around me like a blanket I didn't know I needed.

I didn't cook anything heavy today. Just coffee and a few biscuits. My appetite hasn't been the same lately, though I don't mind. I keep telling myself that I'm simply saving energy, giving my body the chance to recover. But deep down, I think I'm also saving myself from sitting down at the table alone, from staring at the other side of the seat where I still imagine Clark sometimes.

I decided to spend the day doing something light. So, I opened my laptop and started rewatching City Hunter. There's something about Lee Min Ho that makes me feel at ease. Maybe it's because he reminds me of a time when I used to watch the same show with Clark, laughing at random scenes, talking about what-ifs and maybes.

It's funny, even on days when I do nothing, he still fills the quiet. I think of him when I sip my coffee, when I see a romantic scene, when I hear a song that reminds me of those soft moments we once shared. Sometimes it feels like he's just behind the scenes of my life, no longer visible, but still there, written into the script somehow.

I thought about how different my days are now. A year ago, I would've texted him something random. I would've received a teasing reply or a sweet comment. But now, all I can do is whisper things into the air, hoping somehow he might feel them like a ripple in the wind that reaches wherever he is.

It's the second day of November. Clark's birth month. I've been counting the days without realizing it, maybe because a part of me has been subconsciously bracing myself for it. I know his birthday will come soon, and I'm not sure how I'll handle that day yet. But I'm trying to prepare my heart, gently, quietly just as I've been doing these past few months.

I realized today that rest isn't just about sleeping or staying still. It's about allowing yourself to exist without expectation. To breathe without guilt. To miss someone without letting the sadness swallow you whole.

I still miss Clark, that part of me hasn't changed. But there's something different about how I miss him now. It's quieter. Softer. Less desperate. Like an ache that no longer screams, but hums.

Before I go to sleep, I glanced at my phone one last time. His name isn't there, of course. His messages stopped months ago. But my heart still remembers the rhythm of our conversations, the way he used to say "goodnight" like it was a promise. Tonight, I whispered a quiet "goodnight" to the ceiling, imagining it might somehow reach him in the wind.

It's a peaceful kind of sadness tonight. A calm melancholy. The kind that doesn't hurt too much, but stays just enough to remind me that love, no matter how it ended, still leaves something behind.

And maybe that's okay.

Maybe that's love's quiet aftertaste: gentle, lingering, and real.

With no love to give,
Alyssa (Phineas, Arlo, Fifi, and Mang)

Last updated on:2025-11-03T19:56:02+05:30