Everyone has their own way of grieving. Some people drink it up; others run or go on expensive trips. Me? I’m keeping up with myself—staying busy, making decoration decisions (well, we both know that isn’t exactly my strongest side). I’m doing it anyway. I’m learning. I’m moving on.  But at night, when all the noise of the day fades away, that’s when I realize… I miss the sound of your laugh, even when it’s a new and strange one. I miss the enthusiasm in the way you tell a story, the little white heart emoji before bedtime, the morning allergies. And I’m definitely missing—funny enough, because I used to hate it—the way my body reacts to your touch.  The thing about grieving is, it has stages, right? I’m not denying. I could never be angry at you. I’m not trying to go back and fix things. Depression doesn’t look good on me.  I’ve made my peace with it, but I’m definitely mourning what we could have been.  

And sometimes, I ask myself if all this missing is part of the letting-go process—or if it’s just me longing for a little more time by your side.  But this all happens at “midnights like this.” Then the day comes, the alarm goes off, the noise starts, and autopilot kicks in. I keep moving on… further away, every day