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To the Last Time

To the Last Time

Raise your glasses.
Not in celebration—
in acknowledgment.

Cheers to the end of 2025.
Welcome, 2026.

In sixty seconds, a year is no more.
A whole world closes without ceremony.
No drumroll. No apology.
Just time doing what time does best:
leaving.

We toast not because it was easy,
but because it was real.
Because we survived it.
Because some of us didn’t get to leave it whole.

Here’s to the last time
we said see you later without knowing
it meant never again.

To the final unremarkable moments
that only revealed their holiness after they were gone.

Here’s to the people who faded quietly,
not with conflict or betrayal,
but with distance, silence, unanswered messages,
doors that stayed closed long after the knocking stopped.

We were born across billions of years,
flung into the same brief window of existence,
long enough to recognize one another—
and somehow short enough to lose each other anyway.

What a miracle.
What a terrible waste.

Here’s to the lives we almost kept.
The versions of ourselves that don’t get sequels.
The futures that dissolved without ever becoming mistakes.

This is not nostalgia.
It is mourning.
It is naming what mattered
before it disappears completely.

As the clock resets and the year changes its number,
we do not pretend we are untouched.
Every new beginning arrives carrying scars—
and asks us to keep going anyway.

So raise your glasses one last time.
To endings that didn’t ask permission.
To love that was real even if it didn’t last.
To the truth that some goodbyes
are rehearsals for grief.

And to what comes next—
not just a new chapter,
but a new book.

May we speak more carefully.
May we love more deliberately.
May we recognize the sacredness of now
before it becomes then.

Cheers
to the last time.

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