They say writing it down can help. So, here I am. With a cramped hand from having spent too long figuring out what to write, what to say, what to feel. But words fail you. Words can only do so much in trying to describe the quiet afternoons, the rush of the summer wind, the chill of the frigid autumn air when it comes.

But you are not going to be here this autumn. Even though you promised. Even though I believed. Even though the shrine still stands up to this day because you said it would.

Autumn will come. As will winter, spring, and summer. And time will pass—sometimes too slow, but most often fast. I will be older. Maybe I will move out of this languid town and take your dream as my own. Or maybe your words will become a thorn in my throat, digging deeper and deeper until I bleed all over.

I do not know what to feel anymore. They say writing it down can help.

They say a lot of things.

You would have laughed in their faces if you heard what they said. You, who believed time is meant to be felt and not feared. Who believed words are as sacred as faith, and that they live forever. Words—not even sentences or thoughts—go on and outlast everyone, even the person who uttered them. You would have said, What's the use of spouting words if they're never going to be heard?

But you are not here to hear mine.