I wake up, and the first thought is you. Always you. The other side of the bed feels wider than the whole room, heavier than any silence. I grab my phone the way someone dying of thirst grabs a glass of water, urgent, desperate, knowing it won’t be enough but reaching anyway.

I type. I tell you, the night was too long. That I dreamed of your laugh. That I can still feel you in the smallest corners of this flat. And I always end the same way: saying I love you. Like a prayer. Like the words themselves could reach across the distance you left behind. As the hours crawl by, the words pile up. I write the way I breathe: compulsively, because if I stop, I suffocate. I tell you about the lunch I made without appetite. About the song that caught me off guard and tore me open. About how the emptiness gets louder when night falls. And every time, I circle back to the only thing I can say with certainty: I love you. I love you as if it’s the first time. I love you as if it’s the last. I love you as if love itself could bend reality and bring you back to me.

This has become the rhythm of my days. Updates that don’t need answers. Declarations that don’t ask for anything in return. A flood of words fills the silence where you used to be. Maybe I’m not even writing for you anymore, maybe I’m writing to stop myself from disappearing.
I love you.
Every message is a piece of me I send, hoping it’ll make the weight of carrying you inside me a little less brutal.

And none of it reaches you.