Give him back to me

They say heaven is a beautiful place,
but mine lost all its color the day you left, Dad.
Since then, even silence sounds different.
And the house… is no longer a home. Just a place where I survive.

The chair is still there.
No one moves it.
As if time itself is afraid to touch it.

At night I hug my pillow
as if I could trick my body.
But it’s not you.
It’s never you.
And every time I realize that, it hurts like the first time.

I kneel beside my bed
and my hands no longer obey me.

—God… if you can hear me…
do something.

I don’t want to keep living if this is life without him.
I don’t want to learn this language of absence.

Give him back.

Even for a moment.
Even if it’s a lie.

I don’t want to be strong.
I don’t want to get used to this.
I don’t want to wake up another day
pretending he didn’t leave.

I just want him to open the door again
as if nothing ever happened.
As if the world didn’t break.

Give him back to me…

or take me instead.

Because my little brother still doesn’t understand death.

He still turns in the street
looking for a hand that isn’t there.
He still stares at the door
as if life could undo what it did.

He still asks questions
no one should ever have to answer.

And I…
I run out of breath every time I look at him
because I know one day
he will stop asking.

And that day will be worse than this.

It terrifies me that he’ll forget his voice.
That time will steal his laughter.
That one day he’ll say “Dad”
without remembering who it was for.

So if you’re there…
if you can truly hear what is never said out loud…

make it simple.

Leave me with this emptiness.

But don’t take away from him
the chance to keep looking for him.

Give him back to me.

And if you can’t…

then stay with me a little longer.

Just long enough
for this pain to stop feeling endless.