I still write to you

 I still write to you.

Not on paper anymore…

But somewhere inside me that never stopped reaching for your name.

It starts quietly.

Like a thought that doesn’t know it’s already become a memory.

I’ll be sitting there, doing something ordinary…

and suddenly I’m speaking to you again.

Not out loud at first.

Just in the place where love still remembers how to call you.

There are things I never got to finish saying.

Things I thought there would always be more time for.

Like how much I still look for you in the doorway.

How I still listen for you before I open the fridge.

How my hands still move through the house like you’re just in the next room, waiting.

It’s strange…

How absence can feel so loud in the beginning…

and then slowly turn into something softer.

Almost like you learned how to stay without being seen.

Sometimes I imagine you reading these words.

Not as a dog anymore…

But as something made of light and memory and everything I ever loved about you.

And I wonder if you can feel them.

These little letters I send into silence.

Do they reach you?

Or do they simply come back to me as comfort when I need it most?

I think about the day I had to let you go.

I replay it in pieces I wish I could rewrite.

But then something in me always stops that thought halfway.

Because even there…

even in that hardest moment…

there was love.

So much love it hurt.

Maybe that’s why these words still reach out.

Because love doesn’t know how to stop speaking just because someone has stopped answering.

And maybe you’re not answering because you don’t need to anymore.

Maybe where you are now…

there is nothing left to fix.

Nothing left to fear.

Only the soft peace I always wished for you.

I still catch myself talking to you in the quiet.

Not asking for anything.

Just telling you about the day.

About small things.

About nothing important at all.

Because somehow…

that still feels like being close to you.

And in those moments, I don’t feel foolish anymore.

I feel connected.

Like the distance between us is no longer measured in time or space…

but in something gentler.

Something love understands even when I don’t.

So I keep writing.

Not because I expect a reply…

But because some bonds were never meant to end at goodbye.

They were only meant to change form.

And maybe every word I send into the quiet…

is just another way of saying what I’ve never stopped feeling.

I miss you.

I love you.

And somehow…

you still reach back.