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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It's been two thousand six hundred and thirty eight days.?Three hundred and seventy six weeks.?Three million seven hundred ninety-nine thousand four hundred and forty minutes.?It's been seven years since the last time I heard your voice, felt your embrace, or appreciated your presence in this world. It's been seven years of me going at life without the person who understands me best. So here I am writing letters to you, my dead best friend. I've been struggling lately like we both knew would happen after turning 27. It gets scary, confusing, heavier than we had imagined. Getting older doesn’t feel the way we thought it would. We used to believe that things would just happen — that growing up came with certainty and direction. But it doesn’t. You have to make things happen. Discipline isn’t automatic — you have to practice it every day. Self-love isn’t something you arrive at — it’s something you nurture. The insecurities from childhood? They linger. And the world, in so many ways, seems designed to feed them. Confidence isn’t granted; it’s built. And even when you build it, it can be torn down in a moment.? I just thought it would be easier. I guess what I’m saying is: none of these things are guaranteed. They’re not milestones — they’re daily choices. But there’s one thing that does just happen — something no one warns you about: Life starts to show. On your skin. In your eyes. In your posture. Everywhere except in that small corner of your heart where that childhood wonder still lives. I’m officially at the age where I miss being a kid. I miss the innocence. The lightness. Waking up without a worry, laughing without fear. I miss living life with you. Following our curiosity, wherever it led. I miss being bold and unafraid — the people we promised we’d always be. I've been going through the motions of life for two thousand six hundred and thirty eight days. ?I lost myself three million seven hundred ninety-nine thousand four hundred and forty minutes ago. I haven't authentically loved myself or anyone for three hundred and seventy six weeks. It's been seven years of missing you and It's been really hard. Until next time best friend,
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