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Your death changed me in quiet, permanent ways.

Not loudly, not all at once, but over time.

It taught my mornings how to ache softly.

It taught my nights how to stay awake.

I became someone who listens for echoes now.

Footsteps that aren’t there still reach me.

I speak your name inside my thoughts.

Like it might still answer back.

The world kept moving as if nothing broke.

But something essential slipped out of place.

I learned how absence can weigh more.

Than anything that ever stayed.

I carry your lessons in ordinary moments.

In patience, in pauses, in how I forgive.

Grief reshaped the way I love others.

It made my heart quieter, deeper.

I’m not who I was before you left.

But I am someone built from loving you.

Even now, you are part of my becoming.

Even now, I walk with you inside me.