The House Without Your Voice

It’s strange how silence can feel so heavy.

When you were here, the house was never really quiet. I don’t mean in a noisy, chaotic way—it was the kind of sound that made a place feel alive. Your voice floated from the kitchen as you hummed while cooking. You’d call out from the hallway, asking if I’d seen your keys. You’d tell me a random story you’d remembered, your words spilling out in bursts of laughter.

Back then, I didn’t realize how much those little sounds mattered.

Now, when I walk through the rooms, I hear the creak of the floorboards under my feet and the soft hum of the refrigerator. The walls don’t echo with your warmth anymore. The air feels different, as if it’s holding its breath, waiting for a sound that will never come.

The Quietest Mornings

Mornings used to be our favorite time. You’d make coffee before I even got out of bed, and I’d listen to the clinking of mugs and the gentle splash of pouring cream. Some days you’d talk to me from the kitchen while I was still half-asleep, and I’d answer back, my voice groggy but smiling.

Now, I wake to stillness. No clinking mugs. No cheerful “Good morning.” I still make coffee, but the sound feels empty without your voice wrapped around it.

I’ve learned that it’s not the coffee I miss—it’s the way you made mornings feel like a beginning, not just a routine.

Rooms That Remember

Every room holds a memory. The living room remembers the way you’d curl up on the couch, telling me about your day. The bedroom remembers your late-night conversations, the ones that drifted between deep truths and silly jokes. The kitchen remembers your laugh when I burned toast—again.

I used to think a house was just walls and a roof, but I know better now. It’s a keeper of moments. And when the person who made those moments is gone, the house doesn’t forget—it just holds the memories quietly, waiting for you to come back and notice them.

The Sound of Healing

For a long time, I thought the silence was my enemy. I filled it with television, music, anything to drown out the ache of your absence. But one day, I realized I wasn’t really listening to myself at all—I was just trying to escape.

So I let the quiet stay. I sat with it, even when it hurt. I made my coffee in silence, walked through the rooms without background noise, and listened to the sound of my own breathing. Slowly, I began to understand: the silence wasn’t empty—it was space. Space for me to grieve. Space for me to remember. Space for me to grow.

Learning to Speak Again

Eventually, I started talking out loud in the house again. At first, it felt strange. I’d tell myself what I was making for dinner. I’d comment on the weather. I even laughed at something on TV and said, “You would’ve loved that,” as if you were still here to hear it.

Maybe you were, in some way. Or maybe I was learning that your voice isn’t gone entirely—it lives in the parts of me you touched. It lives in my own voice when I tell a story, in the phrases I picked up from you, in the way I laugh now without even realizing it sounds a little like yours.

Where I Am Now

The house still isn’t the same without you, and maybe it never will be. But I’ve stopped trying to make it the same. I’m learning to let it be something new—a place where your memory lives alongside my present.

Some days, the quiet still aches. Other days, it feels peaceful. And sometimes, I catch myself speaking into the stillness, not because I expect an answer, but because I know love doesn’t truly disappear—it just changes shape.

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Thank you for reading

Best Regards: Habib