Last Seen

We never stood in the same room,
never shared a table, a street, a sky—
and still, somehow, you knew me
better than most people who could.

Twice a week, sometimes three,
your voice folded into my evenings
until it felt like part of the house,
even from so far away.

I gave you the parts of myself
I rarely let daylight touch,
and you didn't flinch.
You simply made more room.

Then you married.

And I am happy for you.
I am.

But happiness has a strange weight
when it also means goodbye.

You didn't leave.
Nothing dramatic happened.

It's quieter than that—

a door closing so slowly
I'm still not sure when it shut.

Now I sit with the version of us
that talked until the night thinned out,
wondering where all those unfinished conversations
are supposed to live.

I'm not asking for it back.

I'm only asking myself
to stop expecting the phone to light up
the way it used to.

Some connections never need a body
to leave a body-shaped hole
when they're gone.