Some nights,
it feels like I’m running out of air—
sinking slowly into the kind of quiet
that wraps around your chest
and doesn’t let go.

I reach for you in the stillness,
my hand stretching toward
a presence that isn’t there.
The space beside me answers
with nothing but still air.

The days are gentler.
They offer distractions—
tasks to complete, people to smile for,
moments that keep the ache at bay.

But the nights?
They are heavy.
They close in like water,
and every thought grows louder,
shouting in the silence.

Memories rise like waves.
And I can’t stop myself
from wondering—
do you ever lie awake,
missing me too?

Sometimes I want to hate you—
for breaking our family.
No, we didn’t have children,
but we had Skye.
And in my heart,
we were our own little world.

Sometimes I want to hate you—
for the heartbreak that lingers,
for tossing me aside
like I was nothing,
like we were nothing.
But I can’t.

No matter how hard I try—
to hate you,
to dull the ache—
I can’t.
Because I love you.

And I know your reasons
weren’t about us.
You thought you had to push me away
to do what you believed was right.

But I hate that you couldn’t lean on me,
that you carried it all alone.
You took on burdens
that weren’t yours to bear,
and still—
I admire you for it.

I hate that you put us on hold.
I hate how you’re slowly erasing me.
The days are bearable,
but the nights?
The nights are endless.

I wake up expecting to find you,
to see a message saying you miss me.
But I don’t.
And I hate that
it’s always me reaching out first.

I hate that you chose for us,
without trying to find another way.
I hate that I still feel you
in the empty spaces.
I hate that I pray—
every single day—
for you to come back,
to say you were wrong.

I hate this fragile hope that won’t die,
the belief that somehow
we’ll be better—
that love will make us stronger.

But most of all,
I hate that I’m alone in this hope.
I hate the masks I wear,
the smiles that lie to the world.
I hate how much I miss you.

I hate that I don’t know
how to be near you
without wanting to hug you,
kiss you,
hold your hand.

I hate that I fear so much—
the thought of you
being gone for good.

And I hate
that no matter how much I wish I didn’t—
I still love you.

The cold has a memory —
it lingers in the corners of empty rooms,
settles into the spaces you once filled.

No matter how many layers I wear,
it finds a way to my skin,
a whisper of what used to be warmth.

The windows rattle,
the floor sighs under footsteps that aren’t yours,
and I tell myself it’s just the season.

But the truth is,
it’s not the winter that chills me —
it’s the memory of you.