I couldn’t write you a letter when I left

 I couldn’t write you a letter when I left,

so I left pawprints instead.

You’ll find them everywhere, if you look.

There’s one by the door —
a reminder of how I used to wait for you to come home.

Another by the window —
where I watched the world while you whispered my name.

And hundreds, maybe thousands, scattered across your heart —
each one a thank-you note written in love and fur and devotion.

When you think I’m gone,
touch your chest.
Feel that quiet ache?
That’s my final pawprint — the one I left inside you.

It beats with every memory,
every smile that still trembles when you say my name.

One day, when we meet again,
you’ll see them all —
every single pawprint glowing like stars.

And together, we’ll read the story they wrote:
how love lived,
how love stayed,
and how it never once said goodbye.

Until then, keep every note safe.
Because in them,
I’m still saying what I never stopped meaning:
“I love you.”