The Silent, Empty Place

I walk into the room,

like I didn’t just lose you yesterday.

I smile,

the kind of smile that doesn’t reach my eyes,

and no one sees.

I say the words —

"Yes, I’m fine,

just busy,

just tired,"

like nothing changed,

like the earth didn’t shift under my feet

the day you passed.

*****

My hands move through the motions —

coffee in the morning,

keys in my pocket,

checklists in my mind.

But my heart has an empty place

I can't show anyone.

*****

You’re gone,

but I have to keep walking,

keep talking,

keep pretending

that the space you left behind

isn’t sitting there empty.

*****

They don’t ask,

so I don’t tell.

They don’t know

that I still think of you

in the quiet moments,

when my instinct is to call you,

when I let myself breathe for just a second.

*****

I hold myself together,

pieces slipping through my fingers,

but I smile,

because I am supposed to,

because I can’t let them see

what’s lost inside.

We hold it all,

the weight, the ache,

because no one else can see it.

We walk on,

pretending.

*****

I move through the days

like a ghost,

a daughter who will be okay,

who will be strong.

But when the world pauses,

I let myself remember —

the way you laughed,

the way your voice sounded

like home.

And I feel the weight of it all,

heavy in my chest.

But I don’t speak it.

I keep it silent.

Because the world doesn’t stop for grief,

and neither can I.