I Miss you Quietly

I miss you quietly—
not in loud collapses
or trembling confessions,
not in the kind of tears
that stain a pillow
and betray the heart’s secrets.

No—
I miss you in ways so gentle
that even the wind
would hesitate to carry them.
I miss you the way dust settles
on forgotten shelves:
slowly,
softly,
as if trying not to disturb
the silence it lands upon.

There are days
when your absence feels like a soft shadow,
a dim outline of a memory
that refuses to fade.
It lingers at the edges of my thoughts
like an unfinished sentence,
like a story that lost its final page.
I find myself reaching for you
in small moments—
turning to share a thought
with someone who no longer listens,
smiling at something
you would’ve found funny,
then remembering
the space beside me is empty.

I miss you quietly,
the way the last leaf clings
to the branch in winter—
trembling,
but unwilling to fall,
because falling
means accepting
that what once lived
has truly gone.

Some nights,
your memory sits with me
the way a soft ghost would—
not haunting,
not frightening,
just present,
just there,
as if it wants to be remembered
but is too polite
to speak.

I replay moments
that the world has forgotten
but my heart refuses to let go:
the way you said my name
like it meant something,
the warmth of your hand
before life taught us both
how to loosen our grip,
the quiet laughter
we held in our pockets
like tiny fragile miracles.

If missing someone loudly
is a storm—
then my missing you
is the evening after:
the stillness,
the calm,
the soft echo
of what the thunder left behind.

There is no anger in it,
no desperation,
no wild longing
to rewrite the past.
Just a tenderness
that aches without bleeding,
a sorrow
that whispers instead of cries.

Sometimes I wonder
if you miss me too—
not with heavy grief
or sleepless nights,
but in those same small ways:
when you hear a song
that used to be ours,
when a stranger laughs
with a cadence
that reminds you of me,
when you pass a place
where our footprints
once walked side by side.

Maybe you remember me
the way I remember you—
quietly,
gently,
without expectation,
without blame.
Maybe a part of you
still carries the soft echo
of what we were,
the tender outline
of the love we built,
brick by fragile brick.

And yet—
there is peace in this grief.
Not the kind
that erases the ache,
but the kind
that accepts its presence.
Because missing you quietly
means I no longer fight
the emptiness you left.
It means I let it live,
I let it breathe,
I let it sit beside me
like an old familiar friend.

Some wounds scream.
Mine whispers.
Some hearts break loudly.
Mine broke like morning frost—
thin, delicate,
melting quietly
into the earth.

And so,
this is how I carry you now:
in small breaths,
in soft thoughts,
in delicate corners of memory
that I dust gently
so your name
does not fade.

I miss you quietly—
not because the love was small,
but because it was sacred.
Some things deserve
to be remembered softly,
like the last light
before nightfall,
like a whisper
you never meant to hear,
like a goodbye
that was too fragile
to speak aloud.

And maybe someday
this quiet ache
will settle into peace—
but today,
right now,
I miss you quietly,
deeply,
and with a tenderness
that asks for nothing
except to feel
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