Today, April 21st, the world marks 10 years since Prince’s departure. For many, it is simply a day to miss a genius; for me, it is the closing of a cycle that began when I was only 4 years old.

In my previous essay, "The Little Purple Rain," I shared how that guitar note used to cut through me and frighten me. Today, facing the silence his death left behind and the maturity that time has brought me, I deliver the second part of this story.

It is time to give a name to the face that hid behind that note and, finally, allow myself to get wet in the purple rain—without fear and without needing shelter.

The Face Behind That Note

It took me decades to understand that purple wasn’t a color. It was a warning. In my previous essay, "The Little Purple Rain," I said that note used to cut through me when I was 4 years old. I said I was afraid of disappearing inside the music.

But today, the shock was a gut punch: I was watching the movie Purple Rain and, for the first time, I didn’t see the genius.

I saw you.

It was a glimpse—the similarity of a feature, the way of looking that sustains silence. At the exact moment the image on the screen merged with your memory, my entire body shivered.

A sudden chill ran down my spine in front of the TV. Suddenly, the image of the man who occupied the center of my life materialized in the note that has haunted me since childhood.

How could I, at 4 years old, already be feeling what I would live through with you decades later?

It feels like fate—a blood pact my skin signed in the dark.

"Honey, I know, I know times are changing..."

In 2013, we broke apart. The ground vanished, exactly as the song warned it would.

But the note kept vibrating. Now I understand: for a long time, I wasn’t listening to Prince; I was keeping your ghost alive within me.

I used the idol’s image as a shield to avoid facing the sheer scale of what I felt for you.

But time is an unforgiving master. It teaches us that we eventually stop loving what only causes pain.

We grow tired of feeding a feeling that has no home to live in, and of sustaining a longing that isn't mutual.

Every time you see me, you ask for my embrace.

I felt that weight—your need to find yourself again through my affection—but today I realize that this request isn't about us; it’s about your ego. You don’t want my surrender; you want the security of knowing I am still available.

And I am tired of being a shelter for someone who doesn’t have the courage to stay.

Yes, times have changed. I have changed.

The purple that inhabits me is no longer a mystery, nor an invitation.

It is my territory. I no longer want the stage or the idol, and much less the role of healing others' wounds while my own remain open.

The note that used to cut me finally falls silent today.

I was never lost in the rain; I was just learning how to close the door.

I leave behind the note, the ghost, and that embrace that only consumes me. My place in the world now is where my voice is heard, and not where my silence is used.

I am finally home.

And this time, the door is locked from the inside.