I still turn my head when something reminds me of you, as if you're going to be there the way you used to be. Sometimes, I type your name and delete it before sending. Sometimes, a song comes on and suddenly the room feels too quiet. I've learned to leave space for someone who isn't coming back. I still remember how you laughed, the things you hated, the little habits you never noticed. It's funny how a person can disappear and leave their shape everywhere. In crowded rooms, I look for a familiar face. In quiet ones, I hear your voice. And every now and then I catch myself wondering what I'd say if you walked through the door. I think I'd say nothing. I'd just look at you, long enough to feel like the empty chair finally had someone in it again.