You Lost Someone You Love the Most

They say time heals all wounds. That’s a lie. Time doesn't heal. It just teaches you how to live with pain buried a little deeper in your chest.

It happened on a Wednesday—an unremarkable day made unforgettable by a phone call that cracked my world in half. The kind of call you always hear about but never believe will come for you.

"There's been an accident..."

The rest blurred. My knees buckled, the room spun, and suddenly I was crawling across the floor like a child looking for something that could never be found again.

You. I was looking for you.

You were the one person in this world who knew how to calm the storms inside me. The one who could read the pauses between my words like poetry. My best friend, my soulmate, my person.

And just like that, you were gone.

The first week passed in a daze of funeral arrangements and people saying things like “Stay strong” or “They're in a better place.” I wanted to scream at every single one of them. Where was this better place, and why would it ever be better without you in my life?

I wore your hoodie for days, the sleeves too long, the scent of you slowly fading. I left your toothbrush next to mine. I kept your favorite cereal in the cupboard. Grief made me do irrational things—like talking to the empty air, hoping you'd answer. Like rereading every message you’d ever sent, as if your voice lived in pixels and punctuation.

Sleep became a stranger. Nighttime was the worst, when the silence grew teeth and chewed on my heart. I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and beg the universe to rewind. “Take anything,” I whispered. “Take me instead.”

But nothing happened. The universe stayed quiet, merciless in its indifference.

Days turned into weeks, and people started to move on. But I didn’t. I couldn't. My world had lost its gravity. Every memory of you was both a comfort and a dagger. I couldn't decide whether remembering you was healing or torture.

I tried going back to work, to the gym, to normal life. But everything felt hollow. I laughed once, and immediately felt guilty. How dare I find joy in a world that no longer had you?

And yet... life has this cruel way of continuing.

It was on a random Thursday, months after you left, that I felt the sun again. Not metaphorically. Literally. I was walking to the grocery store—barely aware of my surroundings—when sunlight broke through the trees and landed on my face. It was warm. Unfairly warm.

And for a second, just a second, I thought maybe you were there. That maybe you'd sent that light to remind me you hadn't entirely left me.

I stopped walking. Closed my eyes. And for the first time in months, I breathed. Really breathed.

Grief doesn’t leave. It doesn’t evaporate or dissolve. It just changes shape.

At first, it’s sharp. It cuts you open. But later, it becomes this dull, aching presence—like a phantom limb you’ll always feel.

I still talk to you. In my car. In the quiet moments. I see you in strangers. I hear your laugh in the wind sometimes. I dream of you often—those dreams where everything feels real until I wake up, and the loss rushes back in like a tidal wave.

But slowly, I've begun to live again.

Not because I stopped missing you. I will never stop missing you.

But because I realized that to honor your life, I had to keep living mine.

I started writing letters to you. I write one every month. Sometimes they’re updates—“Guess what, I finally went to Paris like we planned.” Sometimes they’re confessions—“I’m still scared without you.” But every letter ends the same: “I love you. I always will.”

I’ve started helping others, too—people in grief groups, strangers on the internet. I tell them it’s okay to break, to sob, to scream into pillows at 3 a.m. I tell them that healing isn’t linear. That some days will feel like you're drowning, and others like you're finally floating.

And if you're lucky, if you keep holding on, one day you’ll find yourself smiling at a memory, and it won’t break you. It’ll warm you.

The pain of losing you will never disappear. But I've made peace with its presence. It walks beside me now. It's part of who I am.

Grief, I’ve learned, is just love with nowhere to go.

So I carry that love with me. In my bones. In my breath. In every step I take toward a future you should’ve been part of.

You were the chapter I never wanted to end.

But your story lives in me now.

And every word I write, every life I touch, every moment I survive—it's all for you.

Note:

If you’ve lost someone you love, this story is for you. You’re not alone. Your grief is real. Your healing is allowed to be messy. You are allowed to miss them and still laugh. To hurt and still hope.

Because even when the person you loved the most is gone, your love for them remains.

And sometimes, that love is what keeps you breathing.