held in the quiet

It is almost August, and I still look for you in small things.

Not in grand signs or dramatic dreams,
but in the way the sunlight flickers through the trees
during the late afternoon,
in the breeze that carries a scent I can’t quite name,
but makes something inside me pause.

In songs that feel like early evenings,
in the way the light lands on empty chairs,
in quiet moments when no one is watching
and my thoughts drift somewhere warmer.

There’s no grand sorrow here—just the hum of something unfinished.
of love that settled into the background
like soft music in another room.

I think of you when the world slows down.
When the sky turns that perfect in-between color—
not quite blue, not quite gold—
and everything feels like it’s holding its breath.

I don’t search the way I used to.
It’s quieter now.
The missing has softened into something manageable,
a gentle echo rather than a thunderclap.
You’re not a wound anymore—
you’re a season that passed through me,
and left the earth changed,
but still capable of blooming.

I don’t ache the way I used to.
It’s gentler now.
The missing feels less like a wound
and more like a familiar weather—
one I’ve learned to live through.

There are moments,
often at the edge of sleep or just before dawn,
when I still feel your presence beside me.
Not painfully. Not longingly.
Just… there.
Like the way a song stays in your head
even after the music has stopped.

I’ve learned not to chase the what-ifs.
But some days, I still trace them with my thoughts.
Not to wish for a different ending,
but to honor the way it felt to love you.
To be loved by you, even if just for a while.

And if someday,
you find yourself wondering if I’ve forgotten—
know that I haven’t.
I carry you in small ways—
in the way I’ve learned to slow down,
to notice things,
to stay soft in a world that teaches us to close.

This isn’t waiting.
This is remembering with grace.
This is hope that doesn’t beg,
but simply stays,
like light on water.

It is almost August,
and though we are not where we once were,
a part of me will always
look for you
in the quiet corners of summer.

And still,
if you ever find your way back,
I’ll be here.
Maybe not waiting,
but never forgetting.