The days after Natalie's ritual are a blur. Time stretches and contracts in strange ways, and the apartment feels both too empty and too full. I spend hours sitting by the window, watching the world outside, trying to find some kind of center in the chaos of everything that's happened. There's a strange kind of peace now, knowing the entity is gone, but the aftermath of it all has left me feeling raw, like I've been stripped bare.

I've let go of Tyler. I know that. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.

The grief is still there, heavy and sharp, but without the entity feeding on it, it feels more manageable. It's no longer this suffocating force that controls me. It's something quieter, something I can sit with, even if it hurts.

Max stays close to me, his presence a comfort I hadn't realized I needed so much. He follows me from room to room, his eyes always on me, as if he knows I'm still healing, still finding my way back to myself.

It's strange how empty the apartment feels now, even though it's the same place it's always been. The shadows don't move anymore. The air doesn't hum with that oppressive energy. It's just an apartment again. Otherwise, I'm different. I've been changed by everything that's happened, and I'm still figuring out what that means.

***

On the second morning after the ritual, I wake up early, the pale light of dawn filtering through the blinds. I sit up slowly, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. Tyler's absence is palpable, but it's not as sharp as it once was. The edges of my grief are softening, turning into something more bearable, something I can carry with me without breaking.

I glance toward the corner of the room where Tyler's guitar used to sit. It's gone now. I'd asked Chloe to take it for me the day after the ritual. I couldn't bear to see it anymore, to feel the weight of his memory in every object around me. She understood. She always does.

There's one thing I couldn't let go of.

The journal. The one I kept while planning Tyler's surprise birthday trip. It sits on the nightstand, untouched since the day I found it. I stare at it for a long time, my fingers twitching with the urge to open it, to read the entries, to let myself slip back into those memories.

But I know that's not what I need right now.

I pick up the journal, holding it in my hands for a moment, feeling the weight of it. It's just paper and ink, but it holds so much more. It holds the hope I once had for a future that no longer exists. It holds the love I poured into every moment I spent planning that trip. It holds Tyler.

Nevertheless, it's time to let it go.

I stand up, carrying the journal with me as I walk toward the living room. The air is cool, the apartment still quiet in the early morning light. Max follows me, his nails clicking softly on the floor. I open the back door that leads to the small balcony, and the cool October air washes over me as I step outside.

The city is waking up, the sounds of cars and distant voices filtering through the streets below. But up here, it feels like I'm in my own little world. A world where I can say goodbye in my own way.

I sit down on the balcony, the journal still clutched in my hands. My heart feels heavy, my throat tight with unshed tears, but I know this is what I need to do. I need to release Tyler from this place. From this world. And from me.

I take a deep breath, flipping open the journal to the first page. My handwriting stares back at me, messy and full of excitement. The first entry is about the day I decided to plan the trip—how I'd found the perfect rental in Mykonos, how I couldn't wait to surprise Tyler. Reading it now feels like I'm peering into a life that doesn't belong to me anymore.

I let the pages flutter past my fingers, skimming over the words, over the plans I made with so much love. And then I reach the last entry. The one I wrote the night before Tyler died.

Tomorrow, I'm going to tell him about the trip. I can't wait to see his face when I show him the pictures of the cute Airbnb. I know he's going to love it. It's going to be perfect.

Tears spill down my cheeks, and I let them fall. I don't wipe them away. This is part of the process. This is part of letting go.

I take a match from the small box I'd brought outside with me. My hands tremble as I strike it, the flame flickering to life. For a moment, I hesitate, staring at the small, fragile flame. Then, I hold it to the corner of the journal.

The fire catches quickly, spreading along the edges of the pages, curling them inward as the words turn to ash. I watch as the flames consume the journal, as the memories I've been holding onto for so long dissolve into smoke and embers. It's both heartbreaking and freeing, like I'm releasing a part of myself that I've been carrying for too long.

Max sits beside me, watching silently as the journal burns. I run my fingers through his fur, grounding myself in the present, in the warmth of his companionship. The past is gone now. I can't change it. I can't hold onto it forever. But I can move forward. I can find a way to live without being consumed by it.

The journal burns down to nothing but ash, and I sit there for a while, letting the cool breeze wash over me, letting the weight of the moment settle into my bones. I've let go of Tyler. I've let go of the future we were supposed to have. And now, I'm left with the present. With whatever comes next.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I can face it.

The rest of the day passes quietly. I don't do much—just sit with my thoughts, letting them come and go without trying to push them away. Chloe texts me a few times, checking in, but I don't feel like talking. Not yet. I need this time to myself, to process everything, to sit with the quiet and the stillness.

It's strange, being alone with my thoughts after so long. For weeks, I've been haunted—both by the entity and by my own grief. But now, the apartment feels... peaceful. Empty, yes, but in a way that feels like a blank slate rather than a void. It's a space I can fill with something new. With new memories. New moments.

***

That evening, as the sun sets and the city grows dark, I light a few candles around the apartment. Not for a ritual, not for protection—just for myself. To bring a little warmth into the space. The flickering light casts soft shadows on the walls, but they don't scare me anymore. They're just shadows. Just the absence of light.

I sit on the couch with Max curled up beside me, a soft blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I can feel the weight of my grief still there, but it's quieter now, less demanding. It's a part of me, but it doesn't define me.

As I close my eyes, letting the soft glow of the candles lull me into a calm, I think about Tyler. I think about all the moments we shared, the love we had, the future we never got to have. And I feel a deep, abiding sadness. But I also feel grateful. Grateful for the time we did have. Grateful for the love that still lingers, even after everything.

"I love you." I say quietly as it verberates throughout the apartment's silent ambience. Knowing the real Tyler can't hear me, I say it anyway, "And I'll always carry you with me."

The words don't feel like a burden anymore. They feel like a promise. A promise to honor the love we shared, but also to move forward. To live my life fully, even if it's without him.

As the night deepens, and the apartment grows quieter, I feel something shift inside me. A sense of peace. A sense of closure.

I'm ready to let go.