Today I miss you. Not just a little. I miss you in the quiet way that fills an entire house.
The birds are singing outside, and it feels almost cruel how alive everything sounds while the inside of this house is so still. We used to work here together. Two laptops. Two coffees. Shared glances across the room. I was so used to your presence that I never imagined I would have to learn your absence.
Now I walk from room to room without knowing what to do with myself. I clean things that are already clean. I move objects around just to feel movement. But no matter how busy my hands are, my mind always goes back to you.
I don’t know how we became strangers. I don’t know how someone who was family, my best friend, the love of my life, can suddenly feel so far away. It’s a strange king of grief to lose someone who is still alive. To look at a person and realize the version you loved no longer exists. Or maybe never existed the way you believed.
People ask me if I’m still in love with you. Of course, I am. Love doesn’t switch off overnight. It doesn’t disappear because one person decides to leave. It lingers. It echoes. It sits at the table we chose together, in the house we bought together, and reminds me of everything we built.
I didn’t choose this ending. I would have fought. I would have stayed. But you can’t stay where you’re not wanted. You can’t hold onto a relationship alone. And sometimes loving someone also means accepting that they no longer choose you.
So here I am. Learning to sit with the silence. Learning to be alone in spaces that were designed for two. Learning that missing you and accepting your decision can exist at the same time.
Today is a hard day.
But even on the hard days, I know I have to survive this. I have to rebuild. Not for us, but for me. And for our children. They will always be the reason I will never regret the fifteen years we shared.
And maybe one day, the silence won’t hurt this much.
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