Grief isn’t loud anymore. It used to be—a crash, a howl. Now it’s quiet. Familiar. It moves like steam from a mug, or the sound of a drawer opening where nothing’s been touched in months.
It shows up in the little things. The second plate you don’t reach for. A song you skip because the first note ruins you. The way you almost say their name, then don’t. Not out loud.
At first, I thought grief was the crying. The breaking. But what stays isn’t dramatic. It’s the soft ache of remembering during breakfast. The moment you laugh, then stop. Because how dare you. But also—what else can you do?
Some days it’s lighter. Some days it floors you, out of nowhere. Like in line at the grocery store when you see their favorite cereal. Or when you’re folding laundry and realize you don’t have to fold theirs.
It’s strange—how absence takes up space. It feels like they’re just in another room. Like if you waited long enough, they might walk in and say something dumb. Or brilliant. Or both.
You carry it. That’s all. There’s no “healing” like people say. There’s just learning to hold it better. Letting it soften you instead of harden you.
And you begin to notice it in others too—the quiet sadness in someone’s eyes, the way they pause before saying “I’m fine.”
Grief teaches you a new language. One without words. Just presence. Just noticing.
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