It was the most beautiful Sunday of my life.
We danced around the living room to the beats of our hearts. We played fight in the kitchen with Nerf guns we borrowed from my brothers. We sang songs to the top of our lungs and laughed like there was no tomorrow.
Then, there was no tomorrow.
He left like drying rain. I blinked, and it was like he was never there. But it was still the most beautiful Sunday of my life.
It was the Sunday he went to heaven.
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The Writer and Her Daydreams
PuisiA prose and poetry collection where dreams transform into something real.