Dear No one,
It’s been—how many days now? Weeks? I no longer count them out loud, but my body does.
In the quiet hours, I still feel the missing.
Not loudly. Just lightly enough to ache.
I miss him.
Not in the wild, cinematic sense. But in the small, dull way, the way you miss sunlight on your floor after the curtains have been drawn too long.
Yes, I miss our conversations. The kind that felt like warm water, the kind you sink into without realizing it.
And I suppose, more than the words, I miss being asked.
How I am. How my day’s been. If I’ve eaten. If I’ve slept.
I miss being cared for.
And maybe that’s selfish because I’m the one who pulled away.
I know that. I do.
But here’s the truth I don’t say out loud:
I still seek him.
Even now, I catch myself searching for his presence in the corners of my eye.
I know the rhythm of his footsteps, of him making coffee behind me.
I still smell the trace of his perfume and know, instinctively, he’s here.
And still I pretend.
I pretend it doesn’t affect me.
I act cold, indifferent, unmoved. But it does affect me. It does.
Because now, someone I once shared soft moments with—shared glances, laughter, stories, is now a stranger in a familiar shape.
We treat each other like acquaintances. coworkers, merely.
Not cold. Just… stripped of meaning.
It’s jarring, this silence between us. A silence filled with everything we didn’t say.
And maybe this is the cost.
Of choosing space. Of choosing safety. Of choosing not to stay.
But today, I’ll allow myself this entry. This page. This ache.
Because if I cannot say it to him, at least I’ll say it here.
I still feel it.
I still feel him.
And I wish I didn’t.