Grief isn't always loud.
Sometimes, it's the quiet days that hurt the most.
The ones where nothing dramatic happens—no sudden tears, no aching flashbacks—just the still, constant hum of missing you.
Like a song on repeat with no words, only feeling.
Those are the days I wake up, stare at the ceiling, and think of what you might be doing if you were still here. Would you be painting? Laughing with Mrs. Lee over something silly? Singing softly as you watered the plants on the balcony?
It's those little images that break me gently.
I go through the motions—school, meals, walking home—like a ghost wearing my own skin. People around me talk, laugh, plan their futures. I nod, smile when I should, answer questions with just enough energy to stay unnoticed.
But inside, I'm quiet.
I used to hate those days. They felt like betrayal, like I was slipping further away from you. But slowly, I've come to understand… they're part of healing too.
Grief doesn't demand fire every day.
Sometimes it just sits beside you like an old friend.
And on those quiet days, I let it.
I sit at my desk, brush in hand, letting the silence speak. I no longer force myself to feel or remember. I just exist. I let your memory visit when it wants to.
And sometimes, in the silence, I feel closest to you.
Like in the way the light hits my window at noon, or how the wind rustles the curtains just enough to remind me I'm not alone.
The quiet days no longer scare me.
They've become a place of peace.
Not because I've stopped missing you—
—but because I've learned how to carry you, even in stillness.
And maybe that's what growth is.
Not a loud declaration that I've moved on.
But a gentle understanding that love doesn't end with goodbye.
It just changes shape…
and learns how to stay.
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