You left so softly
I almost believed you were still here.
Your toothbrush by the sink,
Your jacket on the chair.
I still set a place for you at the table,
still hold the air beside me into the shape of your hand.
Now every empty space
is a reminder
of where you used to fit.
Love doesn’t die loud.
It unravels in whispers —
missed calls,
half-written texts,
goodnights that stop meaning “I love you.”
I should hate you,
but instead, I miss you
in ways I can’t explain to anyone
without breaking again.