You're not here the way you used to be

 You're not here the way you used to be — but I still feel you in the quiet corners of my day.

In the soft shift of light through the window. In the stillness of a room that once knew your footsteps. I catch myself waiting, almost expecting to hear you padding down the hallway, the way you always did — steady, unhurried, faithful. The house has changed without you. There's a hush to it now. But it doesn't feel empty, because somehow, in ways I can't fully explain, you're still in it.

You show up when the grief gets heavy and something — I don't know what — reminds me to just breathe. You show up in the moments I need comfort most, when my mind drifts back to you like it always finds its way home. You were never just a pet. You were the one presence in my life that loved me without conditions, without keeping score, without ever once looking away.

Even now, your love feels like something I can still wrap around myself — warm and familiar, like a memory that simply refuses to let go. I miss you in ways words were never built to carry. But I rest in this — you didn't really leave. You just moved somewhere I can't see yet.