The Shape You Left Behind

I didn’t know mornings could be quiet in a scary way. Usually you were scratching at my door before I even opened my eyes, doing that impatient wiggle that made everything feel bright. Today there was nothing. The silence felt heavy, like it knew something I didn’t.

Mom sat me down before I could even call your name. Her voice kept wobbling, and her hands were shaking like she was trying to hold something invisible together. Then she said it.

“He’s gone.”

The words felt thin, too small to explain anything. Gone where? Gone how? Gone outside? Gone to chase the neighbor’s cat again? You would never leave without at least one bark goodbye. I waited for her to explain the part where you come back. She talked about sickness, and being tired, and “it happened in his sleep,” like that made it fair. My ears were buzzing, and all I could think was that she didn’t understand our promise.

You said forever.

You said it in the way you pressed your head into my chest when I cried. You said it when you followed me from room to room like my shadow had grown a heartbeat. You said it every night you curled at my feet, steady and warm, telling me the dark wasn’t as big as it looked.

I went to your bed anyway. The blanket was still shaped like you had just been there, the dent of your body like a ghost trying to stay. I tucked my face into it and breathed you in, and the smell hit me so hard I almost dropped it. It made everything real. Too real.

I waited for you to come running. I waited until my throat hurt from not crying.

But the world stayed empty. And the terrible thing is I keep wanting to bargain with the air, as if begging hard enough will rewind the universe.

If forever wasn’t true, why did you make it feel safe enough for me to believe it?