another day

Another day.
Working helps.
I get distracted just enough to get by, to keep the silence at bay. But every now and then, a thought of you and my best friend slips through.
I miss you both more than I say out loud.

I still find myself saving movies, like we’re still us.
Like I’ll look over and you’ll be there, with chips and salsa dips, analyzing every scene of the movies I choose for us.
You’re not here. I know that.
But the idea of you watching it with me, even in some quiet, parallel version of this life, is enough to keep hope alive.
Maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll show up.
Knock on my door.
Ask me how I’ve been.
And stay, even if just for a night.

I can’t bring myself to unpack and put the vinyl tiles because I still remember when you were there to help me do it, just two doors away.
Every box I try to unpack, I see you and hear you say, “Do it this way, put it there.”
You’ve always been the boss when it comes to decorating our place.

I don’t know how I’ll get by in the coming days.
The thought of us not being together, not even having the chance to be, is creeping in like a slow, quiet plague.
And I don’t feel ready to fight it off.
Not yet.

I dread waking up
because the only place I can truly reach you
is in my dreams.

Where everything is still okay,
where I can still run to you,
where your arms hold me safe
like the world still makes sense.

I wish I had never taken you for granted,
the way you handled me so delicately,
so carefully,
as if I were the most fragile thing you knew.

Now mornings come like a quiet grief,
reminding me what I’ve lost again.

My thoughts are tangled, messy —
so for now, I’ll let them be,
and wait for clarity to find me later.