Anya: The Quiet
The world didn’t stop when he died.
No dramatic pause. No cinematic silence.
Just… Monday.
I still remember the way the light spilled through the window that morning — warm, golden, indifferent. I had laundry to do. An appointment I missed. I even opened the fridge like any other day, half expecting him to be behind me asking if we still had oat milk.
We didn’t.
And he wasn’t.
Grief is weird like that. It doesn’t scream. It lingers — in toothbrushes, coffee mugs, the dent in the pillow beside yours.
I haven’t touched his side of the bed.
Sometimes I still wake up thinking he’s there, turned away, curled into that ridiculous hoodie he wore until the sleeves thinned. I reach out, and the sheets are cold.
He’s been gone for seven weeks and three days.
And I still count.
They say time heals, but whoever they are — they clearly never had to go through this.
Because time hasn’t healed anything.
It’s just made the silence heavier.
Today I opened the box where we used to keep our letters — stupid little notes we’d leave for each other. Grocery lists. Inside jokes. Random “I love you”s on napkins and receipts.
I read them all again. Every single one.
Except one.
The last one.
The one with my name written in his handwriting, sealed and untouched — left for me like a ticking bomb.
I’m not ready to open it.
Not yet.
But I can’t stop thinking about the first time he wrote me a letter — not a text, not a sticky note, but a real one.
God, that feels like a lifetime ago.
