My Z Baby. You finished your master’s degree. I knew you would. I hope you walked across that stage with your shoulders back and your head high. I hope you remembered that the world tried to shrink you and you refused. I am so proud of you. You loved me openly when loving me came with risk. You let me love you in ways no one else had. You gave me softness where I had only known defense. Please keep advocating. Open that safe living space. Be the refuge you needed when you were younger. And love yourself the way you loved me.
Now here’s the hard part. You two are probably distant right now Not because you don’t care. Because you feel guilty. Guilty laughing. Guilty touching. Guilty feeling something that looks like love without me there. Stop it. Go to therapy. Together. Separately. Do not let grief turn into avoidance. I know how you both process pain — by trying to carry it alone. Don’t. I brought you together because I knew you were a perfect fit. You both challenge each other. You both crave depth. You both love fiercely and stubbornly. Don’t let my death be in vain. If I fought my whole life against my own blood just to love you both, then the least you can do is live.
Travel. Touch. Argue and reconcile. Build something. And when you feel joy again, don’t silence it. That’s me too. I love you in a way that never ends.
Love Always,
— Lena
My voice breaks before the last word. Zaria is crying silently now, shoulders shaking. I don’t realize I’m crying until a tear hits the paper and blurs her signature.
“She knew,” Zaria whispers hoarsely. “She knew we pulled away.”
I nod, unable to speak.
We did pull away. We slept on opposite sides of the bed. We avoided eye contact too long. We pretended our love was a shared hallucination.
“She said don’t let her death be in vain,” Zaria says quietly.
I swallow hard.
“We haven’t been living,” I admit.
“No,” she agrees. “We’ve been surviving.”
I fold the letter carefully before pressing it back into the envelope like it’s sacred.
“She told us to go to therapy,” I say.
Zaria gives a wet laugh. “Of course she did.”
I look at her fully for the first time in weeks.
“We feel guilty,” I say plainly.
“Yes.”
“For loving each other.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretches between us. Then I stand and cross the room slowly. I stop in front of her.
“She didn’t bring us together to collapse when she left,” I say.
Zaria’s eyes search mine. “You still love me?” she asks, voice small in a way I’ve never heard before.
“With everything I have,” I answer immediately.
She nods as tears start to fall again. “Then let’s not waste it,” she whispers.
I pull her into my arms. We don’t rush. We don’t pretend the grief isn’t there. It is.
But beneath it?
So is love.
It’s been six months since it doesn’t feel like betrayal to admit that.
