Well, ladybug…
It’s been two years today. The worst day of my life.
I can still feel the pain and anguish that washed over me when
you took your final breath.
That moment has never left me— and neither have you.
I know I’ll never find someone like you again.
Someone so loving, so caring, so endlessly understanding.
You were one of a kind, and you loved with your whole heart.
I miss our time together—
those simple Saturdays when we’d go to Home Depot just to get out of the house.
Our late-night talks. Breakfast in the mornings.
Meal planning, trying new things, laughing at the failures.
Your hugs as I walked by, warm and grounding.
I remember catching you smiling at me when you thought I
wasn’t looking.
That look—
that quiet, certain love—
I felt it every time.
And I know I won’t ever feel that again.
You left two years ago—
breathless,
yet somehow still full of love.
The echo of your warmth
stayed long after the silence settled.
You inspired me
to reach for the better parts of myself,
to soften where I was hardened,
to be gentle in a world
that often forgets gentleness.
Your kindness
was the kind that clung to people—
quiet, warm,
impossible not to carry forward.
Even now, it lingers in me.
I miss holding you,
feeling the world steady itself
in the circle of your arms.
I miss kissing you,
those small moments
that said everything without words.
But most of all,
I miss your ever-present gift of love—
a light that never asked to be noticed
yet illuminated everything.
And though you’re gone,
your love stays—
not as a memory,
but as a compass
