The world is full of sound today—people laughing, children playing, dogs barking—but for me, it feels like everything is quiet. Not in a sad way, not in a way that hurts. Just a peaceful quiet, like the kind of silence you feel when you've made it through a storm and you're finally able to catch your breath.

It's been months since I let go of Tyler. Since the entity that haunted me was banished and I started the long, slow process of healing. Some days, it still feels surreal—like I'm not quite sure how I made it through everything. But then there are days like this, where the world feels steady beneath my feet, where I can walk outside without feeling the weight of my past pressing down on my shoulders.

I'm at the park again—the same park where Tyler and I used to go, where we'd sit by the pond and watch the world go by. I come here often now, not to relive the past, but to find comfort in the memories that linger in this place. They aren't painful anymore. They're just... echoes. Quiet reminders of a love that was real, a love that shaped me, but no longer defines me.

Max trots ahead of me, his tail wagging as he chases after a butterfly. He's grown a lot in the past few months, and I think in some ways, he's been healing right alongside me. He's no longer anxious, no longer pacing the apartment like he's waiting for something to happen. He's just a happy, curious dog, exploring the world with the same joy he's always had.

I smile as I watch him, my heart warm with gratitude. Max has been my anchor through everything, and now, as we walk through the park together, I feel a sense of contentment I didn't think was possible before. We've both come a long way.

I find a bench near the pond—the same bench where Tyler and I once sat—and take a seat, letting the cool breeze wash over me. The water ripples softly in the sunlight, and the trees sway gently in the wind. Everything feels calm, like the world is taking a deep breath along with me.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting myself just be in the moment. No ghosts from the past, no dark presence lurking in the corners of my mind. Just me, the wind, the water, and the sound of life moving around me. It's peaceful here, and I realize that I've found something I wasn't sure I'd ever find again—peace within myself.

It wasn't easy, and there are still days when the grief comes back, when the memories of Tyler feel like a weight I can't shake. But those days are fewer now, and when they come, I know how to sit with them. I know how to let the sadness wash over me without letting it overtaking me.

I take a deep breath, feeling the crisp air fill my lungs, and I open my eyes, looking out at the world around me. For the first time in a long time, I'm not afraid of what comes next. I'm not afraid of moving forward without Tyler, without the love we shared. Because I've learned that letting go doesn't mean forgetting. It means making space for something new.

And I think I'm ready for something new.

A few weeks ago, I visited Tyler's grave. It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. His family was there—his mom, his dad—and they welcomed me with open arms, with the kind of love and understanding that I hadn't been ready to accept before. We stood by his grave together, laying flowers at the base of the headstone, and for the first time, I didn't feel the overwhelming weight of grief. I felt love. I felt connection. And I felt like I could say goodbye without breaking.

I told Tyler everything. About how much I missed him, about how much I loved him, but also about how I was ready to move forward. I told him about Max, about how we're doing okay now, about how I'm learning to live without the shadow of grief hanging over me. And as I spoke, I felt this deep sense of release, like the last of the heaviness I'd been carrying for so long had finally lifted.

When I left the cemetery that day, I felt lighter than I had in months.

And now, sitting here in the park, I feel that lightness again. It's not the kind of lightness that comes from forgetting or moving on too quickly. It's the kind of lightness that comes from accepting what's happened, from knowing that I've faced the darkest parts of my life and come through on the other side.

I reach into my bag and pull out a small notebook—a journal I started a few weeks ago. It's not like the one I burned, the one filled with memories of Tyler and the trip I never got to take him on. This one is for me. For my future. For the things I want to do, the places I want to go, the person I want to become. I open it to a blank page, the possibilities stretching out before me, and I smile.

There's so much life left to live. So many things I want to experience. And now, I'm ready.

I jot down a few things—small goals, dreams, ideas for what comes next. I don't know where this journey will take me, but for the first time, I'm excited to find out. I'm not afraid of the unknown anymore. I'm ready to step into it.

As the sun begins to set, casting the park in a golden glow, I stand up from the bench and stretch. Max looks up at me, his tail wagging, and I smile down at him.

"Ready to head home?" I ask.

He barks happily, trotting ahead of me as we make our way back toward the street. The world feels open and full of possibility, and I feel a quiet excitement bubbling up inside me. I don't know what the future holds, but I know I'm ready for it.

Before we leave the park, I pause for a moment, looking out at the pond one last time. The water ripples softly, the trees swaying gently in the breeze, and I feel a sense of closure wash over me.

"I'll always love you, Tyler," I whisper, the words carried away by the wind. "Thank you for everything."

And as I turn to leave, I swear I hear something—just the faintest whisper, carried on the breeze. It's not loud, not clear, but it's enough to make me smile.

Maybe it's just the wind. Or maybe it's an echo.

Either way, I let it fade, knowing that I'm ready to move forward. Ready to live my life fully, with all the love, loss, and hope that comes with it.

And as I walk awayfrom the park, Max by my side, I feel lighter than I ever have before.