I didn't mean to stay in bed that long.
But when there's no real reason to get up— no urgency, no voice calling your name, no plan waiting to unfold— it gets harder to justify movement. So I stay. Wrapped in that same blanket. One leg out because it's too warm, then back in again when the cold creeps through. The room smells faintly of sleep and stillness. It's not dirty, just… lived-in. Like the air has forgotten how to be fresh.
I scroll again. Nothing new. Nothing from her. Of course.
Still, that useless hope lingers. Like maybe this is the morning everything will shift. As if closure is something that arrives in a notification. I hate how quickly I check. Like muscle memory. Like addiction.
The curtain's drawn, but sunlight leaks in anyway. A dull, silvery light. Not enough to warm the room, just enough to remind me the world is moving. Outside, I hear a bike go by. A kettle whistle from the neighbor's house. Life, existing. Loud and indifferent.
I sit up slowly. Every muscle feels heavier lately. Like my body knows I'm carrying something I never agreed to hold. My water bottle's half full— I drink, mostly out of habit. Everything feels like that now. Habit. Brush teeth. Wash face. Sit. Scroll. Over and over.
I open the fridge, stare at it, then close it again. No appetite. No real hunger. Just the memory of being someone who used to care enough to cook. I used to take photos of my meals. Used to plan my day around small things— gym, groceries, playlists. Now all of that feels foreign. Like a language I've forgotten how to speak.
Every time I try to write, my thoughts scatter. When I try to clean, I freeze halfway through folding a shirt. It's not that I don't want to live. I just don't know how to, when everything I do reminds me of her.
I pick up an old hoodie she once complimented. I haven't worn it since. I don't even know why I kept it, but I can't throw it away either. It's like that with so many things— screenshots, songs, places. Ghosts with shape and smell.
I wonder if she's left even just a trace of me behind. Or if I was that easy to delete. Although I'm sure she deleted them. Like erasing me. At least I'm sure of that.
You start to think about your absence differently when someone leaves like that. You think about your own space in the world. What it means when the room feels smaller without someone in it— but they go on like nothing's missing.
They say healing takes time. But they never tell you how to survive the empty spaces while you wait.
So I fill mine with silence. With late nights and unfinished thoughts. With half-played songs and unopened messages.
And maybe that's the only way I know how to grieve her.
Not loudly. Not desperately.
Just by existing… a little less. Day by day.
"Some mornings don't begin. They just continue the silence from the night before — only now with sunlight."