I Miss You in Ways I Don’t Admit

I miss you

in ways that don’t make noise.

Not the loud kind—

not the kind that begs to be noticed

or spills out in midnight messages

I’ll regret in the morning.

No,

mine is quieter than that.

It hides in ordinary moments,

like reaching for my phone

and stopping halfway

because there’s no reason

to tell you anything anymore.

I miss you

in the spaces where you used to be

without ever asking permission

to leave.

In the pauses between songs.

In the seconds before sleep.

In the way silence feels heavier

than it used to.

It’s strange—

how someone can go

from being part of your every day

to becoming something

you have to pretend

you don’t think about.

I’ve gotten good at that, you know.

Pretending.

Pretending I don’t remember

the exact way your voice softened

when you said my name.

Pretending I don’t reread old conversations

I said I deleted.

Pretending I don’t wonder

if you ever think about me

at all.

Because admitting that

would mean admitting

I’m still here,

standing in the aftermath

of something you’ve already moved on from.

And I don’t want to be

the one who stayed longer

than they were wanted.

So I carry it quietly.

Like it’s something fragile

that might break

if I let it out too suddenly.

There are days

when I almost convince myself

I’m over it.

Days when I laugh easily,

when your name doesn’t echo

in the back of my mind,

when I feel like

I’ve finally made peace

with how things ended.

But then something small happens.

A song.

A place.

A sentence someone says

in the exact same way you used to.

And suddenly,

it’s all there again.

Not as sharp as before—

but not gone either.

Just… waiting.

I think that’s the part

no one really talks about.

How missing someone

doesn’t always feel like heartbreak.

Sometimes it feels like

a quiet ache

you’ve learned to live with.

Like a scar

you forget is there

until you accidentally touch it.

I don’t miss you

in a way that asks you to come back.

I’ve made peace

with the fact that you won’t.

Or maybe

I’ve just learned

how to live without expecting it.

But I do miss

who I was

when you were here.

The version of me

that didn’t overthink every word.

That didn’t second-guess

every silence.

That believed

if something felt real,

it would last.

I miss

how easy it was

to exist beside you

without wondering

if I was too much

or not enough.

And maybe that’s

what I really hold onto—

not you,

but the feeling

of being seen

without having to explain myself.

That’s harder to replace

than a person.

So no,

I won’t say it out loud.

I won’t call you

or rewrite our ending

just because I still feel

pieces of you

in places I can’t reach.

I won’t turn this into something

it isn’t anymore.

But in the quiet,

in the spaces

no one else notices—

I miss you.

In ways

I don’t admit.

And maybe

that’s the only way

I know how

to let you go.