You don’t notice it while it’s happening.
You don’t mark the million little consistencies that make up a person’s presence.
Their coffee cup in the sink.
Their footsteps in the hall.
The way they sighed after closing the door too hard.
The way they were just… there.

Always there.

Until one day, they weren’t.

And suddenly, everything in the house sounds louder.
The fridge hums like a grief machine.
The floorboards shift like they’re searching for weight that’s no longer there.
You swear the air feels uneven.

You sit in the same chair.
Eat from the same plate.
Use the same light switch.
But now everything echoes.
Because nothing presses back.

You try to remember the last normal moment—
not the last goodbye,
not the funeral,
but the last time they stood in the doorway and said something forgettable.
The last time their voice filled a room like it had every right to.
The last time you rolled your eyes,
or left without saying I love you.

They weren’t perfect.
You know that.
You remember the arguments.
The disappointments.
The ways they failed, and the ways you failed right back.

But grief isn’t a scorecard.
It’s a spotlight.
And now it shines on the empty couch,
on their shoes you haven’t moved,
on the pile of mail that still comes in their name.

They were always there.

Not always kind.
Not always easy.
But always there.

Until they weren’t.
And you weren’t ready.

Because even imperfect love fills the whole damn room.

And now—

now you hear the house groan.

You hear it miss them.

You sit in the silence and realize
you never needed them to be perfect.
You just needed them to come home again.
Even just once.
Even just long enough to say
one more ordinary thing.

You don’t miss who they could’ve been.
You miss the noise they made simply by existing.

And the way the world made more sense when they were still in it.