I just got out of the shower and walked to the room where my grandmother was praying. As I entered, a familiar scent lingered in the air, one I knew all too well. It was the perfume my mom always wore when going out. Her go-to for events. The one that clung to her clothes after long, exhausting days, the one I’d fall asleep smelling. It was also the last scent I remember before the accident happened.

I’ve always kept myself busy. There's usually a dozen things on my plate at any given moment. But after finishing my thesis and wrapping up several projects, everything suddenly stopped. It felt like a sprinter, mid-race, being told to walk. I wasn’t ready. Thoughts I had long buried began to resurface.

I hate to admit this, but I rarely think about the day you both passed. I’ve been too occupied, too distracted. But now, with the stillness, it’s all coming back.

I know my mind has made peace with letting you go. I know you'd both be proud of that. But why does my heart still ache?

Both your birthdays passed recently, July 11th for Dad, and the 6th for Mom. You would’ve been 47 this year. You’d have seen your little boy all grown up. You’d have seen how hard it’s been to keep smiling through the years—in front of family, in front of friends. And I know, deep down, you’d be proud.

Umi, Abi, you can’t imagine how broken my heart is every day, missing you both so much.

I’d give anything just to see you again.