I never saw our house this crowded, at least not what I remembered. It was only you and me, and occasionally your friends who came by to drink tea and talk about everything and nothing. The rooms always felt big, like they were meant for more people, but somehow it didn’t matter. It felt full enough with just us.
It’s been years since you’ve gone. The silence you left behind was unbearable at first. It wasn’t the kind of quiet that gave peace but the kind that pressed down on you, made you feel smaller. I’d walk into your room and still expect to see you there, sitting by the window with that book you always promised to finish but never did. Moving on felt like letting you down, as if every step forward was a step away from you. Because sometimes moving on feels like a betrayal — a betrayal to all the love we held for someone who is no longer here.
But now, the silence has softened. It’s not gone, not entirely, but it no longer consumes the house. There’s movement here now — familiar voices, new ones, laughter bouncing off the walls, filling spaces I thought would always stay empty. I’ve opened the doors to people I once kept out, not because I didn’t want them but because I didn’t know how to let them in.
And yet, I still wonder. Would you like what it’s become? This messy, vibrant, chaotic home? Would you be proud of the way I’ve filled it, or would you miss the simplicity we once had? I tell myself you’d understand, that you’d see it not as a replacement but as a continuation. Because you taught me how to care for these walls, to make them feel alive. You taught me how to make a house a home.
Sometimes, late at night, I still talk to you. I tell you about the people who come and go, about the stories they bring, the warmth they leave behind. And in those moments, I think I feel you here — not in the way you used to be, but in the way that lingers, like a familiar scent or an old song.
This house will never be the same without you, but maybe it was never meant to stay the same. It carries you in its bones, in its cracks, in its corners. And as I fill it with new memories, I like to think I’m not moving on. I’m just moving forward, with you still here, as much a part of me as ever.
