And losing you didn’t just break my heart — it shifted my entire world. It changed the way mornings feel. It changed the way silence sounds. It changed the way I move through rooms that once felt warm and familiar.

I don’t feel like myself anymore.

There’s a subtle disorientation in everything. Like the colors are slightly duller. Like the music doesn’t land the same. Like laughter reaches my mouth but not my chest. You were woven into my routines, my thoughts, my future plans. And when you left, it wasn’t just your presence that disappeared — it was the version of me that existed beside you.

I miss your voice.

The specific tone only you had. The way you said my name. The way your laugh could change the atmosphere in seconds. I miss how safe it felt when you were near. How certain things felt. How simple it all seemed when we were just us.

I try to move forward. I tell myself it’s necessary. I fill my time. I keep busy. I smile when I’m supposed to. I answer “I’m okay” when people ask. But there’s an undercurrent that never fully settles. A quiet ache that lingers beneath everything.

Nothing feels quite right.

Not because life stopped — it didn’t. The days still pass. The world still moves. But something essential feels missing. And I don’t know if you ever truly “get over” losing your person. I think maybe you just learn how to carry it differently.

Some days are manageable.

Other days, the absence feels loud.

And even when I function, even when I show up, even when I convince others that I’ve adjusted — the truth is simpler than all of that.

I miss you. I miss us.