There are no words for the kind of loss that steals the breath from your lungs. No way to explain the weight of knowing someone should still be here, yet somehow, they’re gone. Two days before she passed, she was hugged—one last time. If there had been even the smallest whisper of what was to come, that hug would have lasted longer. It would have been unbreakable, a moment stretched into forever.

"I’m sorry. And I love you."

Kirsten was a force—a presence that made life warmer, brighter, better. She had a way of making people feel special just by being near them, as if she saw something in them that the rest of the world overlooked. Her personality was beautiful—not just in the way she laughed or carried herself, but in the way she loved. And she did love, fiercely and without hesitation.

She should still be here. The world should still have her light, her kindness, her way of turning the ordinary into something unforgettable. There should still be late-night talks, spontaneous laughter, memories waiting to be made. She should still be wrapping her arms around the people who loved her most, filling their lives with the kind of warmth that only she could bring.

But instead, there is an ache that won’t fade. A space no one else can fill. A longing to turn back time, to hold onto her just a little longer, to say everything that was left unsaid.

"I want to hold you and never let go."

And in a way, she will never be let go. Her love still lingers—in the hearts she touched, in the lives she changed, in the echoes of her laughter that refuse to be silenced. She is not just a memory; she is a part of the people who loved her.

Kirsten, you were so loved. You still are. And you always, always will be.