I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the weak light filtering through the curtains. It feels like there’s this weight in my chest, something too heavy to name but impossible to ignore. I think about him again—Papa. He's there in my thoughts, lingering like a shadow, even though he was more of a ghost than a presence in my life. He never stayed close enough for me to know him. Papa… he was a whisper, an echo of something I could never quite grasp.

Sometimes, when I’m at my lowest, I hear him. Not in the way I want—not like he’s there in front of me, but like a voice in the back of my mind. “Take my hand,” I hear, and I want to believe it’s him reaching out to me from somewhere far away. He’s always been unreachable, like the top of a mountain I can’t climb. Anapurna. That’s what it feels like—he’s there, but I can never quite reach him.

Still, in those moments, I realize something. Even though he’s gone, he’s still with me. His absence is what shaped me. His leaving taught me how to stand on my own and survive in a world that feels cold and distant sometimes. “We are still alive,” I hear his voice say, and I somehow know it’s true. “No, it’s not the end.”

I guess love is in all kinds of forms, even in the form of absence. Maybe that’s what Papa gave me, in his own way. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it was something. And only now I understand that was enough. I say goodbye to his soul, and I forgive him!

When I think about my father now, there’s still sadness, but there’s understanding, too. I see myself in him sometimes. Maybe he didn’t know how to be what I needed, but he still gave me something. “I love you, Pa,” I whisper, but it’s not bitter. It’s real. I do love him, even if he never really showed me how to love back.

I stand up and look out the window. The first light of dawn is just starting to break. And I know now—it’s not the end. I’m still here. I’m still standing. Papa may be gone, but I carry him with me.