This isn’t a love story, well, at least, not the kind that ends neatly. It’s a confession written in lowercase, a late-night message never sent, a quiet ache typed between overthinking and “send.” Through eight interconnected poems and childlike sketches, Dying Embers Always Remain traces the flicker of something almost-love: friendship blurred by distance, longing tangled in laughter, the strange intimacy of shared screens and horror movies. Each page feels like a memory scribbled in the margins of a diary, a reminder that sometimes, the people who never quite become ours still leave sparks that refuse to fade. Tender, messy, and painfully honest, this is not a goodbye. Just one honest night.