Not gone. Just missing.
That’s how I get myself through each moment.
He isn’t gone, he’s just missing. Missing from this moment. Like he’s still a phone call away. Like he might show up any second. I take it one moment at a time. At work, and in certain places, it’s easier...he was never there, so he’s always been missing from those moments. They don’t require as much pretending. The moments he would never have missed are the hardest ones to survive.
At home, late at night, I search for him.
I find him in videos. I hear his voice. I see his smile. I hear him singing. I stay there as long as I can. I pretend this is the moment I’m in, the one where he isn’t missing. The one where there are no gaps.
It feels like visiting him somewhere I’m allowed to stay as long as I want.
Leaving that moment is unbearable.
It feels like losing him again, every single time. So I lie to myself and say he’s just missing from a few more moments.....
because the truth would crush what’s left of me.
I live between two worlds now: one where he’s absent and everything hurts, and one where he still breathes, laughs, sings, and exists because I refuse to let him disappear.
I don’t move on.
I don’t let go.
I just survive
moment to moment
choosing the version of reality that allows me to stay alive a little longer.