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I stare at the saved text messages,
his name,
his picture still there,
frozen in a moment when he was alive,
before I knew the weight of what would come.

Each word,
each message we shared,
lingers like a ghost in my phone,
a reminder of the kindness he gave me
when I didn't know how to give it to myself.
He helped me find pieces of my courage
even as he struggled to hold his own.

I keep scrolling,
my fingers tracing the screen,
but I never find the words I wish I had said,
the words that are too late now—
how much I loved him,
how much he meant to me,
how he changed the shape of my world.

His absence weighs heavy
in the quiet space between our messages.
The last one from him
is a simple thought,
so casual,
so unaware that it would be the last time I’d hear his voice,
the last time I’d read his words.

I never got to tell him
how much I admired his fight,
how I saw him
even when he couldn’t see himself.
How, in the light of his struggle,
he helped me find my way to something brighter.

Now, all I have is the picture,
the phone number,
the silent messages
that won't come back.

I lost the chance
to tell him that I loved him,
and that I would have held him
if he had just reached out one more time.

But he never did.
And I’m left with this ache,
this endless loop of what-ifs,
the pain of something unfinished,
something I can’t make right.

I stare at the saved messages,
and in the quiet,
I wish I could find a way
to speak across the distance,
to tell him,
just one more time,
that I loved him,
that I always will.

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The Weight of Empty Spaces

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