They said grief sounds like voices.
Whispers in the dark. Echoes of laughter, footsteps down the hall.
But for you, it’s quieter than that.
So quiet it hurts.

Because the voice you needed
—the one you spent your whole life chasing—
never spoke the words you were dying to hear.

“I’m proud of you.”

You tried everything.
Grades, promotions, relationships, silence.
You twisted yourself into a thousand versions
just to be enough for someone who never looked long enough to see.

And now they’re gone.
Now there’s no one left to impress.
No one to hand your accomplishments to
like wilted flowers you still hoped they’d praise.

You stand in the space where they should be,
holding all the things you became
as if they’ll finally turn and say,

“That’s my kid.”

But they never did.
And now they never will.

 So you chase ghosts. And they stay just far enough away to keep you running.

You replay everything—
the good moments that felt close
and the bad ones that made you try harder.

That time they paused, almost said something real.
That almost was a drug to you.
You’ve lived off almosts.

Almost proud.
Almost close.
Almost loved.

You wonder if they were trying.
You wonder if they knew.
But mostly you wonder what it would have felt like
to be seen.
Not tolerated. Not corrected. Not compared.

Seen.

You lie awake in a room full of your own wins
and feel like a child with nothing to show.

All your strength, all your milestones—
they weigh nothing now.

Because the silence between you
is heavier than any grief you were warned about.

And you hate that you still want their voice.
You hate that even now,
you’d give anything
to hear them say the one thing
they never said when it counted.

You didn’t just lose them. You lost the chance to ever hear what you needed most.

And the worst part is—
you still catch yourself trying anyway.

You’re not grieving them.
You’re grieving who you had to become to survive without their love.
And the part of you that still thinks if you do enough, they’ll finally come back and say it.