Someone once told me life was about the journey, and not what you conquer at the end; that when it’s over, in your very last moments, all you’ll remember is the good people you met, the good things you did, and the happy moments you lived. Right there, feeling the wind against my face, looking at all of them laughing, laughing with them, I could feel it, I could make a meaning out of those words and be happy about it. I had something worth dying for, I had a reason to live. They were the reason, and I would never give up on them. Ever. Life was not perfect, but its imperfection made it perfect. And like I once read: “In that moment, I swear, we were infinite”. And we definitely were.
It's not the days that we remember, but it's the moments within those days that are ingrained in our minds. Those moments become treasures in a way. Anyone can walk away, anyone can leave, but the memories never will. They stay forever, the good and the bad. The painful and the cherished. Me? Oh, I don't have any memories, but someone else probably does. To someone else, I'm that person that walked away. I'm the one that left. The memories are still there though. Maybe not in my mind, but in theirs. The tragic part? I don't even know their name.