I think about her sometimes. Not often, but when the world feels too heavy or too quiet, when I find myself slipping into a place I’ve been trying to avoid, I remember her.

  The memory isn’t sharp, like a photograph, but soft, like an old book that’s been read too many times. The pages curl at the edges, and the words blur in places, but the weight of it still lingers in the back of my mind.

  There was a time, before I understood, when I thought I was alone in this world. I lived in the spaces between people, unnoticed, tucked safely away in my little bubble. I had stories to keep me company. But stories, no matter how comforting, can only do so much. They don’t reach across the silence or fill the void between one heartbeat and the next.

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  Then, one day, I found something unexpected. Something that changed everything.

  It wasn’t a person, not at first. It was a voice on the page, a collection of words I wasn’t meant to read but did. I didn’t know it then, but those pages would shape me in ways I couldn’t have imagined.

  I won’t tell you exactly what was written there. Some things are best left unsaid, even when they weigh on you. But if you must know—if you must understand—know this: She was there, and I was there, and somewhere between us, we found something real.

  I don’t know when it happened, but I remember the moment it all shifted. I remember the day the pages stopped being just ink and started becoming part of me.

  I’ll never forget her. Not because she saved me, but because she showed me that saving wasn’t something you could do alone.

  And for that, I will always be grateful.