I Miss You

It’s strange how quiet everything feels now.

I wake up and instinctively look to the left side of the bed — the side that used to be yours. It’s cold, untouched, almost accusing. The sheets still wrinkle where your weight used to be, though I’ve made the bed a hundred times since you left. Some things refuse to forget.

And neither do I.

I miss you.

Not just in the obvious, heavy moments — holidays, birthdays, lonely Friday nights. I miss you in the small, fleeting ones too. When I hear a joke you would’ve loved. When I cook too much pasta out of habit. When I reach for my phone and remember you won’t answer anymore.

They say time heals. But they never said how much time. Or how it would feel like a slow bleeding instead of a clean break. I think part of me expected to wake up one day and be okay again. But you’re woven into everything — songs, smells, routines. You’re in my bloodstream. You’re in the silence.

The truth is, I didn’t just lose you. I lost who I was with you.

Do you remember that night at the lake? The way the stars looked like they had spilled across the sky? You said you didn’t believe in forever — that nothing really lasts — but you looked at me like maybe I was the exception. I think that was the first time I realized how deeply I loved you. Not for how you made me feel, but for who you let me be. You saw me — the real me — and didn’t flinch.

And now I wonder… if you ever miss me too.

Do you think about the way my hand fit in yours? About how we used to dance barefoot in the kitchen, our dinners burning on the stove because we were too lost in each other? Do you think about how we never needed big words, just the comfort of knowing we were each other’s favorite place?

Or have you learned to forget me?

I keep writing messages I’ll never send. Drafts upon drafts of texts that start with "Hey, remember when…", but always end with me deleting everything before I hit send. It’s not that I don’t want to reach out — I do. Every day. But what if you’ve already moved on? What if my name feels like a memory you’ve finally buried?

That’s what hurts most.

Not the leaving — but the thought that maybe I’m the only one still stuck.

I know we had our flaws. The fights. The miscommunications. The quiet ways we stopped trying. I replay those too — not just the good memories, but the cracks that led us here. I’m not romanticizing us. I know we were far from perfect.

But God, we were real.

And I’d choose that again. Even knowing how it ends. I’d still walk right back into that storm, still give you all of me, just for the chance to love you one more time.

Because you weren’t just someone I dated. You were home. You were the person I wanted to tell everything to — the small wins, the terrible days, the random thoughts that made no sense but made you laugh.

Now I just sit with it all. The words unsaid. The pictures in the drawer. The ghost of your voice in my head, saying my name like it still meant something.

And every night, as I stare into the dark, I whisper the same three words.

I miss you.

Not out of habit. Not for drama.

But because it’s the most honest thing I have left.

I miss you when the sun rises, and you’re not there to pull me close.

I miss you when I laugh, and you're not there to ask what was funny.

I miss you when I remember the version of myself that only existed in your presence.

Maybe one day, this ache will soften. Maybe one day, your name won’t sting when it floats through my mind. But until then, I’ll carry this feeling like a secret prayer.

Because the truth is simple, and it doesn’t fade with time:

I loved you.

And I still do.

And I miss you.