You don’t even think about it anymore.
Your hand just moves.
Like it remembers something your mind can’t carry without breaking.

You roll over, half-asleep,
and reach for what used to be theirs—
the shape of them, the heat of them,
the slow rise and fall of their breath that used to anchor you to sleep.

But now the sheets are cold.
Untouched.
Unmoved.

And they don’t flinch.
But you do.
Every damn night.

Because your heart still thinks they’re there.
Still thinks love means warmth,
and warmth means they’ll come back when you shiver.

But they don’t.

You stare into the dark where they should be.
Sometimes you talk to the pillow like it can answer.
Sometimes you cry into it so softly that not even your own ears will acknowledge it.

People don’t get it.
They talk about grief like it’s loud.
But this part—this moment—
it’s a whisper that claws at your ribs.

Because it’s not just the bed.
It’s breakfast without their coffee mug.
It’s the silence where their laugh used to live.
It’s brushing your teeth next to a space that used to smell like their cologne.

It’s the reach.
That unthinking reach.

You can’t stop it.
And you don’t really want to.

Because the second you stop reaching—
really stop—
it means some part of you has accepted they’re not coming back.
And you’re not ready for that.
Maybe you never will be.

So you reach.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it confirms the cold.
Even if it breaks you a little more each time.