Loss doesn’t just echo in memories; it settles into objects, corners, and quiet spaces that once felt ordinary. The untouched mug, the still-hanging coat, the unwashed pillowcase become stand-ins for the person you miss, as if their presence might slip away the moment anything shifts. You hover in the doorway, suspended between wanting to hold on and needing to breathe again.
With time, the smallest choices become acts of courage. You fold the shirt and place it in a box. You keep the note tucked in your wallet. You donate the jacket, imagining someone else warmed by what once warmed them. Each decision whispers, “You are still here with me, just in another way.” Slowly, the room stops feeling like a museum of pain and begins to feel like a living space again—one where absence and love can exist side by side, without suffocating you.
