(But I Miss Her)

I never really missed anyone before. Not in the full, quiet ache kind of way.

People have come and gone in my life. Friends, relationships, even family members have moved in and out of the picture. I’ve always handled that pretty well — or so I thought. I told myself I was just independent, emotionally self-contained. I didn’t get attached. I didn’t cling.

When someone left, I simply adjusted. I kept moving. I carried on.

I used to think that was strength.

And I still value solitude — deeply. When I’m alone, the world slows down. I enjoy the quiet. I enjoy the freedom, the simplicity of not having to share every moment. I can think more clearly. I recharge. The stillness isn’t uncomfortable for me — it’s familiar.

But something has changed.

Now, when my wife goes away for a few days — or when I do — I notice something I never used to: I miss her.

Not dramatically. Not in a way that stops my life. But in a soft, persistent, unignorable way.

The house feels different. The air feels different. The rhythm of my day has a pause where she should be.

I’ll move through my day as I always do, but there’s a background hum of absence now. It’s subtle — like static — but it’s there. When I sit down, when I lie in bed, when I walk through the hallway. She’s missing from the landscape, and I feel it.

I miss the small things. Her voice in the next room. The way she brushes past me as we move through the space we share. The look we give each other in passing that says everything without words.

It’s not that I’m helpless without her — far from it. It’s that her presence adds a dimension to my life I’ve come to love. A warmth. A depth. A companionship that I never let myself rely on before.

Maybe that’s the real shift — not that I’ve become dependent, but that I’ve finally allowed myself to want someone fully. And that means I feel it when she’s not here.

Even when I’m away — in a new place, busy with tasks — there’s a thread of awareness that something’s not quite whole. I find myself thinking, “She’d love this,” or “She should be here to see this.” I catch myself wanting to share thoughts, moments, even silences with her — and realizing I can’t.

That’s what it means to miss someone, I think. It’s not always longing or sadness. Sometimes it’s just the quiet realization that life is richer with them in it.

I used to think I didn’t need anyone. And maybe I didn’t.

But now I have someone — someone I love — and life has become something else entirely. I’ve stopped bracing for absence. I’ve stopped protecting myself from connection. And in doing so, I’ve opened the door to something beautiful… and yes, vulnerable.

I miss her when she’s gone. I feel her absence like a missing note in a familiar song. The melody still plays, but it isn’t quite right.

That doesn’t make me weaker. It means I care. It means I’ve let someone in. It means I’ve grown.

And when she returns — every time — it feels like everything settles back into place. The air feels warmer. The world feels fuller. And I feel like myself again.

Not because she completes me — but because she amplifies me.

That’s what love has become for me. Not drama. Not rescue. Not fantasy.

Just this quiet, constant knowing:
I’m better with her.
And yes — I miss her when she’s not here.

💌 Written from a quiet house… but not a lonely one.

0 Comments