Echoes of Us

I sit on your side of the bed—only, it’s not your side anymore, is it? You’re gone, and nothing can change that.

Soon, the hollow in your pillow will rise, the shape of you forgotten. The scent you left behind will fade, replaced by something that doesn’t know your name.

The silence is loud now. It hums against the walls, filling in the gaps where your voice used to live. I find myself speaking to no one, asking questions into the air as if your answer might still find its way back to me. But the room stays still. Still, like your toothbrush untouched. Still, like the mug you always used, now washed and waiting for hands that won’t return. I even check your phone sometimes, though I know there’s no reason to—just in case you might have left a message. Maybe it’s daft to look for something that’s already gone, but I can’t help it.

I keep replaying the last time you looked at me—not with anger, not even with sadness, just… absence. Like you’d already left the room, even while standing in it. It’s the kind of moment that tattoos itself into the soft parts of memory, quietly, painfully. I try to hate you, sometimes. It would be easier if I could. But even the pain you left behind feels like proof that you were real.

Friends say I should open the windows, let the light in. But light feels cruel right now—like it wants to expose something I’m not ready to see. I move through the house like a guest, careful not to disturb the things you left behind. Your coat still hangs by the door. Your shoes still wait beside the bed. Sometimes I catch myself listening for the sound of keys, the creak of the floorboards. Like you might still come home.

And sometimes, when I’m at the shops, I see people I don’t know—couples, families—and I wonder if you’re out there somewhere, doing this same thing. Are you stood in the fruit aisle, thinking of me the way I’m thinking of you? Or is that something I’ve imagined, too?

But then, today, I find your letter. Not the one you wrote when you left—no, this one is different. It’s tucked away in the drawer, sealed with a quiet finality. I open it, expecting nothing, and in the mess of your familiar handwriting, I read the words: “I’ve moved on, but I’ll always love you.”

I should have known, really. The signs were there, weren’t they? The way you stopped looking at me like you used to. The way your things started to disappear, little by little, without anyone saying anything. But still, reading those words—it’s like someone took a hammer to the soft parts of my chest.

I fold the letter slowly, not sure whether to be relieved or heartbroken. I wish you’d stayed, I think, but maybe it’s better this way