Clearing out the attic today, I found a prom ticket stub. It wasn't mine, it was Rachel's. She was supposed to go with the guy who later spread rumors that she was pregnant. The ticket was torn in half, then clumsily taped back together with clear tape. She didn't say a word, just took it, lit it with a lighter. We stood in a circle, watching that tiny, trembling flame at her fingertips until it went out. No ceremony, no declaration. Just silence, and the sound of charred paper ash falling onto the old carpet. Sometimes, letting go doesn't require a bonfire—just a match, and the courage for your hands to stop shaking.