Moon River

There’s a strange kind of quiet that comes after someone you love drifts away, not the kind you hear, but the kind you feel.

The silence between us has stretched so far now that I sometimes forget where it began.

Yet even here, in the stillness, I still find myself longing for your existence.

I tell myself I’m fine.

I keep myself busy with my things but everytime i pause, i still think of you. I miss you a little too much, a little too often, a little more everyday. 

I fill my days with work, plans, people who make me laugh just enough.

But longing doesn’t care about schedules.

It sneaks in when I least expect it, in the middle of brushing my hair, or when I pass by a song that reminds me of you. 

And it’s always the little things that find me.

The way you said my name when you were tired.

The pauses you took before saying goodnight.

The way your words sometimes stumbled when you felt too much.

You’re still there, between the seconds of my day, like dust floating in sunlight, visible only when I stop pretending not to look.

It’s been quiet, hasn’t it?

I’ve learned to live around your absence the way people learn to live with old wounds, carefully, gently, pretending it doesn’t ache when it rains.

But sometimes, late at night, when the city has gone to sleep and all I can hear is my own breathing, I still think about you.

About us.

And even after all this silence, I still wonder, do you ever find me in the small corners of your life the way I still find you in mine?

When your favorite song plays, when the world goes quiet, when the moon hangs low and lonely, do you still remember?

Because I do. I still write about my days, about you, everyday on my journal. 

In quiet ways I can’t explain.

I remember, everything. 

And maybe, deep down, I still hope you do too.