Please don't go...

It had been so long since I last spoke to my dad—weeks, maybe even months. I didn’t ask how he was. I didn’t care. I was angry, bitter that he left us without a single word of goodbye.

The first few days after he disappeared were unbearable. The house felt so empty. Everywhere I turned, I saw reminders of him—his smile, his voice, his laughter echoing through my memories. The pain was relentless, welling up in unexpected moments and spilling out as tears I couldn’t hold back.

I often wondered where he had gone. A few months before he left, he bought a small house in the countryside. He’d asked us not to follow, not to look for him. He said he needed time alone, away from everything. I hated it, but I loved him too much to ignore his wishes.

Over time, the ache dulled. I adjusted to a life without him. I never forgot him—I couldn’t—but his absence began to feel less sharp. The memories stopped hurting as much. But then a new fear crept in: I was forgetting him. His face, his voice, his hugs—all of it was fading, like a flickering streetlight about to go out.

That night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran outside into the freezing snow. The cold bit at me, but I didn’t care. I looked up at the sky, where clouds and stars fought for space. Tears rolled down my cheeks, stinging in the cold air.

Somehow, I knew he was up there. One of those stars was him, looking down at me. I felt him—his presence, his love. Through my tears, I whispered my sorrow, my regret, and my love for him.

I finally understood. He’d wanted peace, something he’d been searching for his whole life. And now, he’d found it.