I don’t hear you anymore

 I don’t hear you anymore. Not your bark when the doorbell rings. Not your paws tapping across the kitchen floor. Not the sigh you gave when you settled against me at night.

But I feel you.
In the quiet, in the pauses, in the spaces where the world grows still—there you are. A whisper beside my heart.

Grief has a way of teaching us new languages. When you were here, you spoke through wagging tails and playful leaps, through kisses and cuddles, through your endless devotion. Now you speak through silence, through the soft weight in the air, through the warmth that washes over me when I miss you most.

I know some people wouldn’t understand. They might think it’s just memory, or longing, or the tricks of a grieving mind. But I know better. I know love is louder than death. I know your spirit brushes close when I need it most, whispering: “Don’t be afraid. I’m still here. You’ll never walk alone.”

Someday, when my journey is done, the whispers will turn into shouts of joy. I’ll see you waiting, running across a meadow that has no end, no goodbyes. But until that day, I’ll listen closely. Because every heartbeat still carries you with it.

Forever mine. Forever loved.