The Man Who Disappeared While Staying
There are mornings when I wake up surprised that I made it through another night. Like I’m wearing strength that doesn’t quite belong to me — borrowed skin pulled over my bones just enough to pass as whole. But I wear it anyway. Every morning. Every single one.
And yet… there’s always that moment. Right before the day truly begins. A wave of sobs, silent but violent. A grief with no name, because you’re still alive. Still breathing. You just left without dying.
You disappeared in the darkest way — not by vanishing physically, but by retreating into silence, leaving no goodbye, no explanation. Just a void where your promises used to live.
I remember your face, your voice, our long conversations — like a story someone else told me. You walked through me like I was nothing. Air. And left me stripped and gasping. There was no kindness in the way you left. Just emptiness.
For more than two years, I loved you. Dreamed with you. Built a future around you. And now? I look back and wonder who it was I really held. The person I believed in… did he ever exist? That’s the cruelest kind of loss: realizing you loved a version that wasn’t real.
Still, I stand. I get up. I function. I smile when I should. Speak when expected. But inside? I’m rebuilding myself from rubble. From pain. From stone. And in the quietest moments, I still hear your name echoing in my chest. A ghost I can’t seem to lay to rest.
How do you grieve someone who isn’t dead? How do you let go of someone who still exists, but no longer as the soul you once clung to?
You left me with the idea of you. A version built on illusions. And now I’m left holding a shattered image — a truth undone. The man I loved is lost at sea. And what came back to me is only the shell.
Still… I’m here. Not the same as before. Maybe softer in some places, harder in others. Maybe a little more myself than I’ve ever been.
And that — that is the beginning.
And yet… there’s always that moment. Right before the day truly begins. A wave of sobs, silent but violent. A grief with no name, because you’re still alive. Still breathing. You just left without dying.
You disappeared in the darkest way — not by vanishing physically, but by retreating into silence, leaving no goodbye, no explanation. Just a void where your promises used to live.
I remember your face, your voice, our long conversations — like a story someone else told me. You walked through me like I was nothing. Air. And left me stripped and gasping. There was no kindness in the way you left. Just emptiness.
For more than two years, I loved you. Dreamed with you. Built a future around you. And now? I look back and wonder who it was I really held. The person I believed in… did he ever exist? That’s the cruelest kind of loss: realizing you loved a version that wasn’t real.
Still, I stand. I get up. I function. I smile when I should. Speak when expected. But inside? I’m rebuilding myself from rubble. From pain. From stone. And in the quietest moments, I still hear your name echoing in my chest. A ghost I can’t seem to lay to rest.
How do you grieve someone who isn’t dead? How do you let go of someone who still exists, but no longer as the soul you once clung to?
You left me with the idea of you. A version built on illusions. And now I’m left holding a shattered image — a truth undone. The man I loved is lost at sea. And what came back to me is only the shell.
Still… I’m here. Not the same as before. Maybe softer in some places, harder in others. Maybe a little more myself than I’ve ever been.
And that — that is the beginning.
31-35, FNew
