It’s been a whole month since you’ve been home. Thirty days since I last felt your presence in the quiet corners of our house. I miss you. I miss us.

I miss your light, the way your laugh used to fill a room and soften even the hardest of days. I miss your love, the kind that wrapped around me like a warm blanket, steady and sure, even when the world felt cold and unpredictable.

Some mornings, I wake up and still reach for you. Other nights, I stare at the ceiling, wondering if you’re sleeping, if you’re safe, if you’re thinking of me too. It’s a strange kind of grief, one that lingers without a name. You’re still here, but you’re not. And I’m still loving you, but I’m hurting too.

The hardest part isn’t the silence—it’s the memories that echo in it. The sound of you hanging up your keys. The way you’d say “I love you” like it was the most natural thing in the world. The soft creak of the door when you’d come home after work. I ache for the ordinary things.

I don’t know when you’ll be back, or if things will ever feel normal again. But I do know this: I love you, fiercely. I’m holding on to hope, even when it’s fragile. I’m waiting and not just for your return, but for your healing.

And if you’re reading this somehow, just know that I miss your light. I miss your love. I miss you.