I still check your spot

 I still check your spot…

even though I already know you won’t be there.

It happens without thinking.

I glance toward the corner of the couch.
I look beside the bed before turning off the lights.
I peek toward the window where you used to wait for me every afternoon.

And for one tiny second…

my heart still expects to find you there.

I think grief lives inside reflexes like that.
Inside love that became so natural,
the body forgets the soul is gone.

Your spot still feels sacred somehow.

Like the air remembers you.

Sometimes sunlight lands there so softly
that I almost believe you’re curled up sleeping again,
warm and peaceful,
completely safe.

And honestly…
part of me never wants that feeling to disappear.

Because checking your spot means loving you never became past tense.

It means your presence was so deeply woven into my life
that even absence cannot fully erase you.

I miss the little things most now.

The sleepy stretches.
The quiet breathing.
The way your eyes always searched for me when I entered the room.

No one prepares you for how loud empty spaces become after losing a soul who filled them with love.

But maybe those spaces are not truly empty.

Maybe they still hold echoes.
Memories.
Little traces of the bond we shared.

So yes…
I still check your spot.

And maybe somewhere beyond the Rainbow Bridge,
you still check for me too.