You were still there, but you felt so far away. I ached for your attention, your affection, the version of you I fell in love with. I lay next to you at night, tears soaking my pillow, wondering if you felt the same emptiness. Loving you became a quiet agony — I was drowning in devotion while you quietly slipped away. The loneliest I’ve ever felt was when I was still with you. You were physically there, but emotionally, you were a ghost. I reached for your hand, and you pulled away. I shared my heart, and you met me with silence. The spaces between us grew wider, and no matter how loudly my heart screamed for you, you couldn’t hear me.

I started grieving you before you even left. I mourned the version of you who used to light up when I walked into the room, the way we used to laugh until we couldn’t breathe. I felt like a stranger in my own relationship, loving someone who felt more like a memory than a person. The emptiness crept in like a slow tide, filling every space you used to occupy. I would reach for your hand in the night, but your body was already turned away. I’d tell you I missed you, and you’d nod, distracted, as if my longing was an inconvenience.

I started grieving you while you were still mine. I cried in the shower so you wouldn’t hear, biting my hand to muffle the sobs. I scrolled through old photos of us, tracing your face on the screen, wondering if you missed who we used to be.

Loneliness with you hurt more than being alone ever could. Because you were right there, but I couldn’t reach you. And no matter how tightly I clung to what we once had, it slipped through my fingers like sand.