Not like you were calling me—like you were coming home. No one has ever said my name like that before. No one will again. And that’s your fault.

Sloppy. Almost illegible. But you left me notes on napkins, receipts, the margins of books. I hate that I still have them in a drawer like they’re sacred texts.

You remember the name of my childhood hamster, the song I hum when I’m nervous, and the exact date we had our first fight. You remember me better than I remember myself. I hate that no one else will ever know that version of me.

Not with anger—with patience. Like you’d already forgiven me before I even said sorry. I hate that I learned how to be better because of you, and now I have to be better without you.

Falling asleep on a phone call. Being quiet without it being awkward. Letting someone see me cry without explaining why. I hate that I now walk through the world knowing exactly what I’m missing.

It’s not empty. It’s heavy. It sits on my chest at 2 a.m. wearing your old hoodie. I hate that you don’t have to be here to be everywhere.