Grief is an Empty Space

The Empty Space

People say it’s just a pet. I hate that. She wasn’t just a pet. She was part of my life, part of my routine, part of my mornings and nights. She was there in ways no one else was. And now she’s gone.

The house is too quiet. I keep listening for the sound of her paws, the thump when she jumped onto the bed, the sigh when she settled in. I expect it, and every time I don’t hear it, my chest tightens.

I call her name. I know she won’t answer. I know it, but I do it anyway. It still hurts every time. Why do I believe she will run to me, when I also know that she cannot?

I see her things everywhere. Her toys. Her bed. Her blanket that still smells like her, fading a little every day. I press my face into it sometimes, just to feel her, just to remember. It doesn’t make it better, it just reminds me she’s not coming back. I'm hurt myself more. I know it, yet sustain.

Poppy on Christmas Eve. xxO I love you baby.

I cr8nge when seeing her toys, or the treats that I didn't know were hidden under the sofa. I sit on the floor where her bed used to be, and still place her bed blankets there (thus, confusingmy child lol). I laugh at a memory, then start crying again because she’s not here. Gone. Never coming back.

The world keeps moving. Bills, groceries, neighbors, traffic. Everyone else is fine. Yet, I feel frozen, like time is passing me by while I’m stuck in the moment I lost her.

I think about how much she loved me. How simple it was for her to be loyal, to be constant, to care without needing anything in return. And now that love is gone, and the space she filled is empty, and I don’t know how to live in it.

I let myself feel it. Crying, aching, missing. I don’t hold back. It’s messy, and it hurts, and it’s all I can do. But this grief is proof that she mattered. That I loved her. That she was real.

I don’t know when it will get easier. Maybe the silence will hurt less someday. Maybe I’ll smile more than I cry. But not yet. Not now. It feels wrong to move on so simply. It feels like that's when she truly dies.

For now, I sit in the empty space where she used to be and feel it all. The hurt. The missing. The love. Because that’s all I have left.

I can't write lately. I barely make it to work. I'm up all night and sleep too late. I don't feel depressed, but know the symptoms are obvious. I'm angry.

I've tried to write so many times lately. I have A LOT of unfinished thoughts and articles of many genres. I feel functionally fine, but the balls keep dropping because I'm not able to balance them. Most of all, I'm very angry and have no where to file it.

Soon.