The world is burning behind me. Not quietly. Not politely. It’s roaring. The sky is split open. The moon watches like it already knows the ending. Flames climb higher than memory. And still I’m here. Cradling what’s left of myself. Bone against bone. Past against present. The version I was… and the version that survived it. People think letting go is the hardest thing. It isn’t. The hardest thing is holding on when everything around you says it’s over. Holding on when the fire has already taken your certainty. Holding on when you don’t recognize your own reflection anymore. Holding on when the world has changed shape and you haven’t caught up yet. There’s something tragic about this moment. Not the flames. Not the skull. But the tenderness. The way I hold what remains like it’s still alive. Like it still deserves warmth. Like it still matters. Because it does. We don’t just lose people. We lose versions of ourselves. Beliefs. Dreams. Identities we built carefully and watched collapse overnight. And still… we hold them. Not because we’re weak. But because somewhere deep inside, we’re trying to remember who we were before everything burned. So tell me If you’re still holding on to who you used to be… is it love keeping you there… or fear of meeting the person you’d become if you finally let the fire finish its work?