Today I held this sheet of paper in both hands… and it felt heavier than it looks. Not because it’s big, but because it carries everything I silently endured: the needles, the nausea, the days when all I wanted was a hug, the nights when Mom tried to be strong… but I could still see her eyes shining from holding back her tears. There were toys all around me, but I didn’t always feel like playing. I learned too soon what it means to be brave. I learned to wait. I learned to measure time differently: from appointment to appointment, from test to test, from one chemo session to the next. And today… it’s over. My last chemo session is over. And I made it. I can’t quite explain what it feels like when hope returns to your chest. I only know that, for the first time in a long time, the word “tomorrow” isn’t scary anymore. If you’ve made it this far… leave me a kind word for me and for all the children who are still fighting. Sometimes, a simple message is like lighting a fire.