There are seasons that pass without promising to return.
Not because the world has changed—
but because the heart has.

And she—after years of dwelling in sorrow that spun in loops,
after reliving memories like rewound tapes—
finally realized something:

Not every season is meant to return.
Some seasons exist to come to an end.

That summer—the one where she curled up on a hospital floor,
bathed in cold white lights and the heavy rhythm of heart monitors—
will never return.

Because now, instead of merely surviving,
she knows how to live.

That autumn—the one where she sat outside the school gates,
watching classmates holding hands on their way to extra classes
while her name was struck from the roster—
will never return.

Because now, instead of waiting to be accepted by others,
she accepts herself.

That winter—the one when she thought of ending it all,
stood by a high balcony, wondering,
“Would anyone cry if I disappeared?”—
will not return either.

Because now, she would be the one to cry for herself
if ever again she dared to let go.

And this spring—
the first spring where she no longer has to pretend to be strong,
no longer has to force joy—
has arrived.

She has begun to love the little things.

The first rain of the season.
A slow, unhurried afternoon.
A book left half-read.
A spontaneous smile
when sunlight filters through a crack in the door.

She is learning to live in the present—
not to forget the past,
but to stop depending on it.

The past is a chapter in the book of life—
it needs to be read,
it deserves to be cried over—
but it must be turned.

Once, while teaching, a student asked her:

"Miss, if someone has been hurt too much,
do they still have the right to be happy?"

She looked at the student, her eyes glistening,
and simply smiled:

"Not only the right.
You need to be happy.
Because those who’ve known pain—deserve healing more than anyone else."

Each season holds its own sorrow.
Each year leaves new scars.

But like the sun that always rises,
no matter how long the night—
hope always waits at the end of the road.

Not blind faith.
But faith that has once been broken,
and now knows how to rise
on the strength of its scars.

End of Chapter:

The seasons that do not return are not sorrowful ones.
They are proof of growth.
Of a life truly lived—of pain endured, of falls survived—and of still being here.

She knows there will be more fears.
There will be days of confusion.
There will be moments when lovers fall silent,
when friends turn away,
when the world feels cold.

But she also knows this:

No one can take away the seasons she’s lived through.
No one can erase the light that once bloomed within her heart.

And if any season must not return—
let it drift away
like a petal falling at the perfect time,
like the closing note of a well-ended song,
like a part of her life once marked by pain...
so now she can cherish peace.