I still talk to you.
Not out loud, not where anyone can hear me — but in the quiet moments when the world goes still.
In the middle of the night when sleep won’t come.
On long walks where the streets feel empty.
In the pauses between one breath and the next.

I tell you about my day.
The things I wish you had seen.
The small victories, the little failures, the ordinary details that once belonged to us.

Sometimes I even wait for your reply.
Not because I think you’ll answer, but because my heart still remembers the rhythm of your voice, the way it used to fill the spaces between my words.

People would think I’m foolish — talking to someone who isn’t here anymore.
But they don’t understand.
They don’t know that silence can be a conversation too, that memory can feel like presence, that grief is just love that has nowhere else to go.

So yes, I still talk to you.
And maybe, just maybe, somewhere beyond what I can see, you’re still listening.

Always and Forever

💬 Do you still talk to the ones you’ve lost? Share your silence in the comments — someone else might feel less alone reading it.