i woke up to silence. not the peaceful kind — the unsettling kind.
the kind that lets you know that something is wrong

the kind of silence that expands the emptiness



the house was empty — odd for a saturday. no footsteps. no pans clattering

no loud chittering from your room. just stillness.

i called out once. twice. no one answered.



they told me you were in the hospital. they didn’t say why or how.

but somehow, i knew. 



i don’t remember what was said next — only that your name came with sirens.

i remember not understanding,

then understanding too much.

i remember nodding, even though nothing in me made sense.



you tried. you almost did. you almost died.



and i wasn’t there.



i wasn’t there to pull your hand way, to yell at you, to hold you, to ask you what was wrong.

to remind you that you were loved — that i loved you



i kept thinking about how quiet the house was. like it already knew.

like it was grieving you before i even understood i might have to.

i kept asking myself what i missed. did you give signs? did i ignore them?

why couldn’t you stay for me? was i not enough? i could have done better.



i broke down in the middle of the kitchen. 

right there, next to the counter where you used to slice fruit,

where the light used to spill, gold and careless, warming our souls.

that morning, everything felt cold. 

the floor too hard, the sunlight too bright, the walls too white.

like grief had stripped the paint off the walls.



i slid down the cabinets and let the grief hit me. 

not a wave, but a collapse.

quiet. 

sudden.

terrifying.



it was quiet. only the sounds of sobs ripping through my throat and fists hitting tile could be heard.



i think i whispered your name like a prayer.

maybe a dozen times, maybe just once.

like i could call you back with my voice alone.

but you didn’t come



and the kitchen stayed empty.

and i stayed there. on the cold floor,

grieving someone who was still alive.

i mourned you in the present tense. not gone, but almost. not dead, but dissapearing.



the grief didn’t ask for permission

it just opened me up from the inside and poured everything out—

every fear, every memory, every what-if that hadn’t even happened yet.

grief is strange.

it doesn’t wait for funerals. it just steps in and takes your seat. and drinks from your cup

and folds itself into your breath,

until you forget what breathing ever felt like before.



you came home.

but you almost left,

and something in me never came back.

you almost died. i almost lost you. the world almost went on without you.

almost is far too close.

because somewhere in that almost, something shattered.

because how do you mourn someone who’s still breathing?

how do you move on from a goodbye that never finished leaving?



the house was too quiet that morning, 

and sometimes,

in my dreams,

it still is.



some silences are too loud to outlive.