I really don't have anyone to talk to about this, so I'll write it here. Personally, I feel that the worst goodbyes, whether in a group or a friendship, are those where you know it's all over. There's no possibility of going back, not even the slightest chance of those days ever happening again. It's not a goodbye with promises of "see you soon." It's a silent, final closure. And the hardest part isn't accepting that the people are gone, but accepting that the version of yourself that existed with them will never return. In my situation, I experienced something incredibly beautiful with my family. Everything felt perfect in its simplicity: a full table, conversations flowing together, spontaneous laughter, the clatter of dishes, that feeling of warmth that made the house not just a physical place, but a refuge. There was nothing extraordinary about it, and yet, it was everything. But the disease, silent and relentless, took them away. One by one, those spaces emptied out. Over time, I understood that that feeling of home, as I knew it, will never return. The table may still be there, the house may still stand, but the energy, the perfect combination of people, glances, and moments… that was unique and unrepeatable. Only the memories remain. And although they sometimes weigh me down, they have also become my driving force. They are the engine that pushes me to keep going, to grow, to strive in my career and my goals. It's as if I carry with me the responsibility to honor everything I experienced. However, there is something inside me that resists accepting that it was a complete end. It's an almost irrational feeling, but deeply rooted. A voice that tells me that, even if millions of years pass, even if the universe had to restart from the beginning, somehow those days will return. That if all of history had to repeat itself, every star forming anew, every life emerging from scratch, I would sit again at that same table, in front of the same people, and feel that same warmth as if it were the first time. Perhaps it's a way of protecting myself from pain. Perhaps it's faith. Perhaps it's hope. But this idea lives within me strongly: the conviction that true bonds don't disappear, they only change form. My actions are deeply marked by this thought. If I were to die tomorrow, the only thing that would truly pain me would be that my siblings would have to face the weight of this life alone. I'm not so distressed by the idea of ​​never seeing them again after death, because deep inside me there's this quiet certainty that, somehow, we will meet again. In another life, in another time, in another version of the universe... but together. That's why my only real concern is the present. That in this life we ​​have now, we don't let ourselves be consumed by unnecessary worries. That we don't waste time on petty conflicts or empty ambitions. That we can enjoy the simple things: a conversation, a shared meal, a sincere laugh. If the universe truly grants us another chance someday, I want to feel, when that moment arrives, that in this life we ​​did the best we could. That we loved unconditionally. That we were present. And that, while we were here, we truly lived.