Today, I Miss You Like This

Today I missed you in the cereal aisle.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just standing there too long,
staring at a box you would have made a joke about.

I missed you in the quiet before answering a question.
When someone asked how I’ve been.
There was a space where your name used to live.

I missed you when my phone buzzed
and for half a second
my body still thought it might be you.

I missed you in the middle of something ordinary —
folding laundry,
washing a mug,
watching the light shift across the floor.

Grief doesn’t always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it just taps my shoulder
and says,
“See? They should be here for this.”

I missed you in the way the day kept going anyway.
How traffic moved.
How emails came in.
How the world did not pause
even though something in me still has.

I missed you when I laughed.
That part always surprises me.
Joy still feels like it needs permission.

I missed you in the evening,
when the house softened
and there was no one to tell
about the small, forgettable details
that suddenly don’t feel forgettable at all.

Today I missed you like this —
in pieces,
in flashes,
in the most ordinary corners of the day.

Nothing monumental.
Nothing poetic.

Just you,
not here,
again.

And the day,
continuing. 🤍

Written by: Victoria Villada-Lopez 

Looking for a connection beyond this article?

The new Actively Moving Forward® app is now available. Register here, and access your groups and community with a refreshed experience — 24/7.

Community is just a tap away. 💙