Azmat Roman ✨
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I Found His Toy Under the Couch. I Sat There for Hours.
I Found His Toy Under the Couch. I Sat There for Hours. It was supposed to be a normal Sunday afternoon. The kind where laundry hums in the background, the scent of coffee lingers in the air, and the house feels almost too quiet—comfortably so. But then I knelt to fetch the remote I’d dropped, and my hand touched something small and familiar beneath the couch.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Confessions
Grief Doesn’t Have a Timeline. It Has a Voice.
The morning after the funeral, Nora sat in her father’s favorite armchair, still wearing the black dress from the day before. The silence in the house was no longer peaceful—it was a living thing, brushing against her like a cold breeze every time she dared to move.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Confessions
My Son Died Quietly. But the Silence Hasn't Stopped Screaming
The room was quiet when he left. No cries, no gasps, no final words. Just a long exhale, and then—nothing. I had imagined it differently, I think. Or maybe I never dared to imagine it at all. How do you prepare for the death of your child? How do you cradle someone in your arms, someone who once grew inside of you, and then feel their warmth disappear like the last trace of sunlight on a winter evening?
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Families
The Chair at the Table That No One Dares Touch
The dining table was made of dark walnut, polished to a mirror-like sheen. It had stood in the heart of the Carrington house for three generations, passed down like a crown, heavy with history. Twelve matching chairs encircled it, each carved with ornate floral patterns, the kind no one made anymore. But it was the twelfth chair—the one at the far end—that held a presence bigger than any person seated at the table.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Confessions
They Say 'Move On' Like I Know Where to Go
The house still smelled like her—lavender and old books, sun-warmed cotton and something faintly citrus. He hadn’t opened the windows since the day she left. Or maybe since the day she stopped breathing. Time had become viscous, days slipping past like water through fingers, leaving behind only salt and ache.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Confessions
He Died in Spring. I've Been Stuck in Winter Ever Since.
Spring had always been his season. The world around him burst into life with bright colors and fresh scents, but for him, it was a time of new beginnings, hope, and endless possibility. I remember the way he smiled as the first cherry blossoms bloomed—like the world was made just for him.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Blush
Some Days, I Still Hear His Feet Running Down the Hall
There are mornings when the silence in this house is so complete, it feels almost violent. It’s been nearly three years since Daniel died, and yet—some days—I still hear his feet running down the hall. Not in a haunted way, not in a ghost story sense. But like muscle memory—how your arms remember the weight of something long gone.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Families
I Keep Setting the Table for Three. There Are Only Two of Us Now
Every evening at six, I pull out the chairs, one by one, from the old oak dining table. It’s a simple act, mechanical by now. Fork, knife, spoon. Napkin folded in half. Water glasses. I place the plates carefully – one for me, one for Emma, and then… the third.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Families
He Was Only Eight. But He Took a Piece of Me With Him.
He was only eight. Just a boy, with curious eyes full of wonder and a smile that could light up the darkest room. But when he left, he took a piece of me with him — a piece I didn’t even know I had to give.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Confessions
Grief Isn't Loud. It Whispers When the House Is Quiet.
There were too many clocks in the house. That’s what Elise thought as she sat on the edge of the guest bed, hands curled in her lap like they were waiting for instruction. Every room ticked at a slightly different rhythm—kitchen clock, hallway clock, her father’s old wristwatch still hanging on the peg by the back door. None were in sync. They clicked over one another, a disjointed chorus of time still passing.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Confessions
What I Would've Said If I'd Had One More Day.
If I’d had one more day, I would have told you everything. But the truth is, I never got that chance. Time, that relentless thief, always slips away before we’re ready. I’m left holding onto memories, wondering what I might have said if just one more day had been mine.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Confessions
The Lie I Told Myself After He Died
I still remember the moment I heard the news. The sharp crackle of the phone line, the hurried voice on the other end, the rush of disbelief that slammed into me like a wave. He was gone. Just like that. The man I loved, the person I thought I could never live without, was gone.
By Azmat Roman ✨7 months ago in Confessions
