If You Ever Come Back

The toothbrush is still in the cup.

Your favorite mug — chipped on the side — is still next to the kettle.

And your jacket hangs by the door like you just stepped out for a walk.

I never moved your things.

Not out of denial, but because I didn’t want to admit they don’t belong to you anymore.

That they’re mine now — memories wrapped in cotton and coffee stains.

It’s been seven months, two weeks, and four days since you left.

But I still check my phone every night.

No missed calls.

No new messages.

Just the same blank screen and that old photo of us in winter — smiling like we didn’t know how to fall apart yet.

Everyone says the same thing:

“You have to move on.”

“Time heals.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

But healing doesn’t come in clean, quiet waves.

Sometimes it’s loud.

Sometimes it’s not there at all.

And sometimes…

I miss you so hard it hurts to breathe.

The worst part is, we didn’t even have a proper goodbye.

No big fight.

No dramatic scene.

Just a quiet closing of a door and the echo of your footsteps down the stairs.

You always said I overthink things.

That I carry feelings like they’re bricks in my pocket.

And maybe you were right.

Because even now, I walk through the supermarket and pause in front of the tea aisle —

wondering if I should buy your favorite brand, in case you come back.

Stupid, I know.

But when you love someone that deeply, the absence echoes louder than their presence ever did.

Some nights I write texts I’ll never send:

“Are you okay?”

“Do you still sleep on the left side?”

“Do you think of me… ever?”

And I delete them all.

Because what’s the point?

You’re not coming back.

Or if you are, you would’ve by now.

Right?

Do you remember our Sunday mornings?

You’d make pancakes, slightly burnt on the edges, and I’d sit on the counter, legs swinging, talking about everything and nothing.

You’d pretend not to listen, humming to some 90s song on the radio.

But you always remembered every word I said — even the throwaway ones.

I didn’t realize how much of my day was built around you…

until you weren’t there to ask me how it was.

I keep wondering what I would say if you ever came back.

Would I be angry?

Would I pretend I’m fine?

Would I tell you how I still wait for the sound of your keys in the lock?

Or would I just wrap my arms around you and say, “Please, don’t go again.”

But truthfully?

I think I’d just ask if you ever missed me at all.

Even once.

Even a little.

Because I miss you more than I should.

More than I say out loud.

More than you’ll ever know.

Some days I pretend you’re just away on a long trip.

That any minute now, you’ll call.

That you’ll tell me about the sunsets you’ve seen, or the weird food you tried, or the people you met.

And I’ll laugh and say, “You always hated traveling.”

And we’ll go back to the way things were.

The easy jokes. The small annoyances. The quiet comfort.

But that call never comes.

And every day, I learn a little more about what it means to let go.

Not all at once.

But in slow, aching pieces.

I don’t hate you for leaving.

I just wish you’d taken the time to say goodbye.

And if you ever come back —

even just to pass through,

even just for a second —

I’ll pretend I didn’t wait for you.

I’ll smile like I’ve moved on.

But deep down, you’ll know the truth.

I never stopped leaving the porch light on.

Just in case you wanted to find your way back.