In the Quiet, It's Still You

Sometimes, when everything goes quiet, I hear you the loudest.

I don’t even know where to begin, because what I feel doesn’t fit neatly into words. It’s been building in the quiet moments — in the spaces where I pretend I’m fine, where I smile at things that don’t move me anymore, where I catch myself wishing I could go back to the beginning… of us, whatever us was.

You never truly left my heart. Not really. And that’s the part that stings the most. Even in your absence, you still feel at home.

There’s a version of life I sometimes imagine — where I never pushed you away, where the timing was kinder to us, where I didn’t let fear or mess or guilt bury what we could’ve had. I see glimpses of it in dreams, in memories I replay too often, in the quiet way my heart still softens at the thought of you.

I miss you. More than I should. More than I admit to anyone. And even if nothing ever comes of these words, I needed to say them — even if only into the void — because holding them in has started to ache in places I can’t ignore.

You mattered. You still do.
And if the world were simpler, I think we’d be somewhere laughing, driving into the unknown, windows down, hearts full.

But for now, I carry you in silence—softly, secretly in the space between what is and what could’ve been.