Sunsets & Goodbyes"

The sun always set the same way on the hill by the old lighthouse — slow, graceful, as though time paused to watch it dip below the horizon. For Mia, that hill had always been a place of beginnings. And, as it turned out, endings too.

She parked her bike at the edge of the gravel road, letting it fall gently into the grass. The wind tugged at her sweater as she climbed the slope. The sky was already melting into strokes of orange and lavender. The lighthouse, long decommissioned, stood still and silent like a ghost of another time.

She reached the top and sat on the bench — their bench — and ran her fingers over the initials carved into the wood: J + M. Jason had laughed when he’d carved them, calling it “every teenage cliché rolled into one,” but she remembered the way he’d squeezed her hand right after, like he was anchoring that moment in the world.

That was two years ago. And today was the day she’d finally say goodbye.

He had loved sunsets. “They’re the most honest part of the day,” he’d said once. “Not pretending to be bright, not afraid of the dark. Just... real.”

Mia took out the folded letter from her pocket — Jason’s handwriting, neat and deliberate, the way he always wrote when he was trying not to cry. He had given it to her in the hospital a month before he passed, with instructions: “Don’t open this until you’re ready to say goodbye. And only at sunset, at our place.”

She had carried it with her every day since.

It took her weeks just to return to the hill. Now, with the light growing dim and her heart heavy but steady, she unfolded the paper.

---

"Mia,

If you’re reading this, it means you’re stronger than you think.

I hope it’s a sunset kind of day. You know the kind — where the sky looks like someone spilled fire and then tried to wash it out with lavender. That’s how I imagine it when I picture you reading this. I hope the lighthouse is still standing. I hope you can hear the ocean.

And I hope you don’t feel alone.

I know you’re angry, or sad, or maybe both. And that’s okay. I hated having to leave, too. I hated missing your birthday, your graduation, the trip we never took to Kyoto. But if I could say one thing to you from wherever I am, it would be this:

Don't stop loving the world because I’m no longer in it.

You always saw beauty in everything — broken shells, late buses, rainy days. Don’t lose that. Not for me.

Every sunset, I want you to remember this: we had something real. Something deep and imperfect and beautiful. And that’s not something everyone gets.

But also — it’s okay to let go now.

Smile. Fall in love again. Make mistakes. Travel somewhere weird. Write your book. Ride your bike until your legs hurt. And when you see a sunset that steals your breath, think of me. But only for a second. Then live for you.

I’ll always be part of your story. But you have so many more chapters to write.

With all my love,

— J"

---

The paper trembled in her hands as the last rays of sun bled into the sea. She didn’t cry like she thought she would. Instead, she smiled — soft, aching, and full.

She read the letter again, then folded it and tucked it into the bench, under their initials. Let someone else find it one day, she thought. Let someone else feel less alone.

Mia stood up and took one last look at the horizon. The sun was gone now, but the colors lingered, like echoes of a beautiful song.

She turned and walked back down the hill, not hurried, not heavy. Her heart, still bruised, felt just a little lighter.

Tomorrow, she would begin again.

But tonight — tonight was for sunsets and goodbyes.