I often tell people I'm doing okay

 I often tell people I'm doing okay, but the truth is every hour of the day still echoes with your memory. The morning sun shines on the empty spot where you always napped, and the quiet evenings feel so much heavier without the sound of you settling in for sleep. Grief isn't always a sudden storm; sometimes it’s just the little shadows that stop you cold—like automatically reaching for the leash, or starting to save a bite of dinner before I remember the bowl isn't there anymore.

You were never just a pet. You were my daily comfort, my constant companion, the reason I looked forward to coming home. You were family in every way that counts. People like to say time heals all wounds, but I'm finding that time just teaches me how to carry this weight differently—tucking your memory into stories I tell, and finding strength in the quiet courage you left me.

If love alone could have saved you, you'd be with me forever. Maybe in a quiet way, you still are—glowing softly like stars guiding me through the dark, and written forever in pawprints across my heart.