The Quiet After You Left

It's raining softly tonight and I keep turning to tell you something, only to find the chair beside me empty. The whole apartment seems to be listening for the sound of your footsteps, the way I do each evening. I miss you the way you miss a breath you forgot to take—not sharp, just a quiet ache that reminds me you were here.

I made your tea by accident this morning and let it go cold on the counter rather than pour it out. There's something stubborn in that, I know, but I wasn't ready to admit the morning didn't need you in it. I'll be here when you come back, same spot, same heart. Until then, the rooms keep saying your name and I keep agreeing.