The park near campus was quieter than usual. The benches lining the walking paths were mostly empty, and the fountain in the center bubbled softly, its water catching the light. I found a spot under a sprawling oak tree, the grass cool beneath me as I sat down and pulled out the journal. My hands shook slightly as I opened it, the blank pages staring back at me like they were waiting to be filled.
For a while, I just stared at the page, the pen resting loosely in my hand. The words felt too big to form, too heavy to put down. But then I thought of Drew—of his laugh, of the way his presence always made things seem lighter—and the words started to flow.
Hey, Drew.
It felt strange, writing to him like this. But it also felt right.
I visited Martha and Pablo last weekend. I hadn’t seen the
