Day 9: If You Could Still See Me
830 Words
*From: Me — Still learning how to breathe without you*
Dear Heaven,
Today marks another quiet morning you weren’t in. And yet, somehow… you were everywhere. The air felt heavier, like it had stories trapped inside it, waiting to be told — stories only you would’ve understood. I sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor like it might open up and take me back in time.
If you could still see me, I wonder what you'd think of the person I’m becoming. Would you smile with that soft knowing? Or shake your head at the way I’m always pretending I’m okay?
I cleaned the kitchen this morning. There was still that old chip in the plate you used to hate, and I smiled because I refused to throw it out. You always told me not everything broken needs fixing — some things just need to be held more gently. I think I understand that now… especially when it comes to myself.
Later in the afternoon, I walked to that small shop by the street corner — the one where they sell those sugar-coated chin chin snacks you loved. I bought a pack without thinking. Then I remembered. You’re not here. I ate one anyway and nearly cried. Not because it tasted bad… but because it tasted the same. Like nothing had changed — and yet *everything* has.
I wonder… do you miss Earth like I miss you? Do souls feel longing? Or are you free now, floating above all the weight we carry down here?
Sometimes, I still reach for my phone to text you. I type out long messages about the world, about my day, about nothing really — then delete them. It’s not that I think you’ll reply. It’s just… part of me still believes the silence is less silent when I speak into it.
Do you see how I talk to people now? I smile more, nod politely, keep things light. I’ve learned to make people comfortable with my grief by hiding it. It’s become my second skin — silent, soft, and invisible unless someone looks closely. But you’d know, wouldn’t you? You always saw through the quiet.
If you could still see me, would you know how often I dream of you? The other night, I saw you in that yellow shirt you hated and I laughed. We were sitting under the mango tree outside the old compound, peeling oranges with our hands and talking about nonsense — the kind of nonsense that meant everything because it was *you*.
When I woke up, I could still smell oranges.
Maybe that was you.
Maybe that was nothing.
Maybe I’m just desperate to hold on.
I passed by the hospital today. I couldn’t go in. I stood across the road and stared at the window I knew was yours. For a moment, I felt something tighten in my chest — the same way it did the night you left. You didn’t say goodbye. I tell myself it’s because you didn’t want me to hurt more. But silence has never hurt this much before.
I’ve been writing these letters to you every day. I don’t know if it’s helping or if I’m just keeping myself busy until grief gets tired and leaves me alone. But you once said writing was my way of building bridges. Maybe this one leads to you.
Sometimes, I wonder what you’d say about my choices — about the ones I couldn’t make when you were here, and the ones I have no choice but to make now. Life hasn’t been easier, but I’m learning. Slowly. Painfully. Quietly.
You always told me I was strong.
I didn't believe it then. I'm trying to believe it now.
I think the worst part isn’t the big moments — it’s the small ones. The way I reach for an extra plate without thinking. The way your favorite song still sneaks onto my playlist. The way I pause when I read something funny and think, “I have to send this to—” and then remember.
You’re gone.
But still, somehow, I hope you see me.
I hope you see how I haven’t given up. I hope you see the way I still stand up every morning, even on the days I want to stay in bed and drown in memory. I hope you see how I carry your laughter with me, even when the world tries to make me forget.
If you could still see me, I’d tell you thank you.
Thank you for being love in its purest form.
Thank you for giving me enough light to keep going in your absence.
And thank you… for being the reason I know that grief is just love that refuses to let go.
I’ll keep writing. Not because I expect a reply — but because in writing to you, I find pieces of myself I thought I lost.
With everything in me,
*Me*
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- Writer
