The Shape of His Absence

25 - The Ghost of You

Elijah is dead. I wanted to melt into the floor. I fixated ahead and away from the photo of him propped up on an easel. My legs crossed at my ankles, hands clasped in my lap. Promise ring still on my index finger where he put it at 19, 6 years ago, though it might as well have been yesterday.

It was his mother's turn to speak. Donning a gown and pearls, her hands shook as she grasped the mic. I desperately wanted to be present. To hear what I knew would be her tearful and loving remembrance.

However, my mind was long gone. In a state of heartbreak, confusion and something I can't name. Because ever since the car accident, I've been hearing Eli's voice. Not just what he might say, either.

The gravelly tone in the morning before his coffee.

The way his voice cracks when he's stifling a laugh.

The playful scoffs, the muffled sobs.

In all the unsolicited grief advice I've gotten, no one has ever talked about hearing voices. I'm certain if I did, I'd be admitted and put away for good.

I could find a way to drown it out, after all, I have a way of dancing with vices to find an escape. It's kind of a running joke between Eli and I. How when things get hard, I find ways to lose myself so I don't have to face it.

In all it's strangeness, I can't fight against the last remaining part of him tethered to me, real or imagined.

He always said I was too afraid to be alone.

A memory shot back into mind, the two of us pacing in the kitchen, Eli wearing his usual worried frown.

"You should try being on your own. You could get your own place for a while. Atleast you'd understand how to take care of yourself, the way I had to, when I was your age."

"We can't afford that, Eli. Paying for two places is ridiculous. One rent is bad enough. And I don't like it when you act like I can't be independent, if I had to be."

He shifted, and gave me that look. "It's just not the same when you never have to do it alone. And you were so young when we moved in together, I just feel like your parent sometimes."

Back in the pews, I watched as Eli's Mom walked slowly back to her seat, then as Eli's childhood bestfriend took the stage. There was commotion, and he spoke into the mic. It was as if he spoke under water, nothing made any sense.

Well, Eli. Now, we won't have to wonder. I'm alone in our home. The one we were supposed to grow old in. And it's me and the ghost of you, and all that we've dreamt and lost to haunt me.

26 - The Dust Settles

People have finally stopped asking if I'm okay. It's not because I seem okay, but rather the tight-lipped warning they get each time they ask. As if to say, I'll never be okay again. And something about the way it's asked says, "it's been long enough, sweetie".

No one warns you about the guilt. Not only the ever-present survivor's guilt, but the guilt of growth. As if one step towards a goal is a step farther away from the past and away from Eli. Even though it's what he always wanted me to do, to step into my full potential, doing so without him is painful. He was supposed to be here, too.

And the isolation. I now understand it as a common symptom of grief. Though in the silent echoes of our home, his familiar voice remains and I welcome it every time.

Looking around, my home was in a state.

Dishes piled, laundry lay in heaps in everything but the baskets, dust collected on the baseboards. All reminders of the hole I'm in without you, Eli.

And suddenly it's the Sunday before we lost you, and my bags are packed. I'm going to my sister's, and my stubborn face is on. You were standing there, hands on hips. A true parent stance if I ever saw one. Maybe there's something to that claim, but this version of me would never admit it.

"Are you sure you're going to leave, with the house like this? Can we do something with it before you go? Sometimes, you gotta hold your end of the deal, do your part." Eli spoke calmly, though I knew he was annoyed.

Looking back, I felt so stupid. I want to go back into that body as she walks towards the door. I want to tell her it's not fair for one partner to do it all. Why didn't I understand something so simple?

Yet, even with the discomfort of the tensions that came up, you always forgave me and knew I'd understand one day. I didn't deserve you.

As if responding to this very thought, Eli appeared in front of me.

"You're being too hard on yourself again. I'm older than you, I've had more time to figure this stuff out. Besides, you've got writing to do, that book of yours won't write itself."

The thought of writing made me laugh, which added to my crazy girl persona. As I lay sprawled on the couch, his side, in my usual outfit of his clothes, writing seemed out of reach. I didn’t move. But for the first time in days, I looked around — really looked. The house was still a mess. So was I. But maybe, just maybe, I could pick up one thing.

27 - A Spark of Hope

I wiped down the counters. That’s all. It wasn’t some grand epiphany — it was just… sticky. And he would’ve hated that.

It felt like the first thing I’d done in months that didn’t make me feel worse. The air is still thick with grief and heartbreak, but something about if feels less heavy, is that acceptance? I don't know. I never thought I'd experience that stage.

His clothes were boxed and given to his nephews, minus a few of my favorite shirts of his. I needed to keep a piece for myself, and those shirts represented the proof of his existence, a reminder of his active presence in my life.

Elijah's body is buried and next to his tombstone lay imprints in the grass from my visits, next to daisies he'd have referred to as weeds. It's the only place that I feel strong enough to write, knowing it's what he wanted me to do most.

I could almost hear him say it — “There she is.” That voice, amused and proud, like when I used to finally get out of bed before noon.

And for a second, I didn’t feel alone.

The act of putting pen to paper was a monumental feat, what words came out didn't even matter. Part of me healed just by uncovering this part of myself I nearly gave up on.

Two and a half years ago, I lost him forever and then lost myself. I still have moments, like coming across his favorite cologne and breaking down. Or reading love letters written before things were even official. Or the old messages and pictures still on my phone which bring me to my knees. Yet, here I am, little by little returning to myself. Trying to figure it out. Reckoning with grief instead of bowing to it.

28 – The Quiet Return

I pushed away the guilt as I typed and retyped on my laptop. Writing has become a daily habit now, though I still bite my lip at the thought that haunts me.

The grass is growing back on our spot.

The one where he's buried.

Yesterday, I realized something that wrecked me: the same voice that used to echo in my mind, I couldn’t imagine it anymore.

I spent the rest of the day curled up in bed, listening to voicemails. Still, it wasn’t as bad as the day I realized I was rounding in on a decade since we met. A milestone I'd always imagined celebrating together. The longest relationship for both of us.

I can see it now, not steak and wine, but tacos and margaritas. More our style. More bang for our buck, we used to say.

We’d end the night with a toast — and fried ice cream, of course.

Lost in reminiscing, and in each other. Talking of what has been and what will be, as we always did. As if we were the only two in the restaurant.

Naturally, my writing begins to echo on this thought:

The what-ifs swirl, and the missed milestones ache.

I believe they always will.

Birthdays and celebrations bring mixed emotions, though I try to see them as signs, signs of how much he truly meant to us.

That sadness belongs beside gratitude.

That love leaves space for both joy and hurt.

This experience feels like a lessening. A detachment.

But what if it’s not?

What if it’s a strengthening of my own voice?

Maybe Eli’s not getting quieter.

Maybe I’m getting louder.

More in alignment with my true self.

We’re moving forward together. Not apart.

I can only hope, with every fiber of my being, that I’m not losing him. Not spiritually. That I have every right to a future worth chasing after.

That I stand to gain from Eli, despite the echoes of loss that still whisper hurts in my direction.

I’ve done my share of hurting.

He wouldn’t want that.

Forever my protector. My defender.

But still I wonder...

How do I live with his spirit?

29 – What He’s Given

There are always reminders of him. Everywhere.

Like the way I make my bed each day — tight, creaseless corners — because he said it set the tone.

Or the way I still make French toast on Sundays, dusting cinnamon on top because that was his favorite.

I no longer flinch or avoid these things.

Now, they make me smile.

He lives within me, and his legacy — his mark on the world — continues.

It’s not his voice in my head that I experience anymore.

It’s his unmistakable presence in my life.

In this once grief-stricken house, the noise speaks volumes.

As grief softens, hearing certain songs or watching certain movies doesn’t sting like it used to.

Sometimes, it even brings relief — like a cool breeze through an open window.

It brings life back into the quiet heartbreak.

This same house — once buried in pain-induced dust and clutter — now smells of lavender or lemon, depending on the day. The sink is clean. Clothes are folded.

Not because I have to, but because I want to.

Sadness is still here.

But so is gratitude. So is laughter.

Because Eli knew how to make me laugh like no one else could.

It’s this, and more, that Eli gave me.

Though he is missed dearly, I’ve found ways to honor our connection.

To make space for his legacy to live through me.

While I’d give anything to have him here again,

I’m choosing my path with intention

and that’s the least I can do for him,

after all he’s done for me.

30 - Dear Eli

It’s Sunday, and that means there’s butter and cinnamon residue on my hands. I have to write this down.

I snatch a piece of paper, hands still sticky, and scribble quickly. My usual neat handwriting barely holds together.

Eli,

I’m doing it. The things you said I could. The life you saw in me before I ever did.

The house is clean. The bills are paid. I’m writing again.

I still miss you. I always will. But I’m not scared anymore.

You’re with me in every small thing and in the woman I’ve become.

Thank you for what you gave me. For who you helped me become.

Love,

Me.

I’ve often wondered how I’d feel when 29 met 30. When the five-year mark arrived.

Five whole years without you.

I think back on what a journey it’s been.

I look around. The letter in my hands I’ll never send.

The clean and orderly kitchen — minus the mess on the stove, where breakfast sits.

I made extra. Just because.

For Eli.

One of our songs plays in the background. I rise from my seat and stretch my legs.

As I go to leave, I pause.

Daisies from Eli’s mom sit on the windowsill. They arrived a few days ago with a note:

Eli loves you, and so do I.

- Anne

She found out about our joke. It became our tradition: honoring him with a coffee mug, a little artwork… as long as it had daisies.

I check the time and hurry out.

Just before I reach the door, I catch my reflection in the window. I’m still me — but something’s changed. The weight beneath my eyes has lifted. In its place: a flicker. A spark.

I’m living the life I always wanted, and never knew I’d achieve.

And I’m finding ways to carry Eli with me, into all of it.

So this is what healing feels like.