Just Let Go

The bed we shared was impossibly soft, and the room around us felt disconnected from every memory I possessed.

Honestly, the more time passed, the more I struggled to remember anything.

I knew I was holding her, the soft curves of her body against mine, the scent of coconut and lavender clinging to her soft, flowing hair.

And I knew she was important.

I just couldn’t, for the life of me, remember why.

The harder I reached for those memories, the faster they slipped beneath the rushing tide of inevitability.

A soft, achingly beautiful voice echoed through my mind, repeating one terrifying sentence on a loop.

“It’s okay, just let go.”

Every instinct screamed at me to listen.

I couldn’t.

I loved her.

I didn’t know why or how, but I did, and I couldn’t just let go.

Because the moment I did, I knew she’d be gone forever.

The room around us dissolved into a blur of black.

Fear consumed me, but the pain lessened with every piece of myself that slipped away and circled the drain.

Eventually, I couldn’t remember why I cared.

Then she was gone too, swallowed by that same all-consuming darkness.

My final thought before the darkness claimed me was a single abstract phrase, waiting somewhere in the shadows ahead.

“It’s okay, just let go.”