Journal: I Miss Him

I Miss Him

I miss him in a way that feels deeper than just missing a partner. I miss my best friend—the person who knew me without translation, without effort. He understood the quiet parts of me, the parts I don’t show anyone else, and somehow made them feel safe to exist. There was a kind of ease with him, a natural closeness that I haven’t been able to recreate, no matter how many people I’ve met since.

It’s been almost two years, and I’ve tried. I’ve dated. I’ve been close to others, even intimate. But nothing has come close to what I had with him. No one has felt like home in the way he did. And I think, if I’m being honest with myself, part of the reason is that I’m still holding space for him—still quietly hoping, still measuring everyone else against something they can’t possibly match.

There’s a resistance in me now. A hesitation. The idea of letting someone know me that deeply again feels exhausting… and maybe even unwanted. What I had with him didn’t feel like effort. It didn’t feel like building from scratch. It just was. And I don’t know if I have it in me to try to recreate something like that with someone new, knowing it might never reach the same depth.

I miss belonging to him. I miss the safety of it, the certainty. With him, I didn’t question where I stood or whether I was wanted. I just knew. And now, everything feels uncertain by comparison.

Sometimes I wonder if this missing will ever pass, or if it’s just something I’ll carry—like a quiet echo of a life I once had. Maybe some loves don’t fade in the way people say they do. Maybe they just change shape, settling into something softer but still present, still felt in the background of everything else.

Right now, all I know is that I miss him. And I don’t know what to do with that.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Trapped in Harassment

Image
Trapped in Harassment I don’t understand why I’m still being harassed. For over two or three years now, I’ve been forced to guess why certain people keep coming after me, tormenting me with the weirdest and darkest things. They say things like “clean your teeth.” What the hell is that even supposed to mean? They mock me with nonsense, twist my reality, and leave me questioning my own sanity while they sit back and feed on my suffering. This harassment has been constant, unrelenting, and cruel. It doesn’t come from just one place—it feels orchestrated, as though multiple hands are playing a sick, manipulative game. They say things like “Jeffrey caused this.” They drag names into it: the Irishes, Webbs, Russells, Livingstons, and so many others. They throw the Odd Fellows under the bus. They twist it in such a way that directly identifying them is nearly impossible without involving the police again. They use technology—voice modulators, mimicers, anonymous accounts—to hide b...
Read more

THE LUMINOUS SHADOW

Image
THE LUMINOUS SHADOW A Treatise on the Alchemy of the Reactive Soul, the Chthonic Crucible, and the Emergence of the Dark Empath Integrating Neuroscience, Depth Psychology, Stoic and Epicurean Philosophy,  Greco-Roman Pagan Theology, Jungian Analysis, and the Ancient Mystery Traditions  into a Unified Account of Trauma, Transformation, and Sovereign Becoming PROEM: The Eternal Return of the Wounded In the vast tapestry of human existence, where the threads of soul and shadow intertwine beneath the gaze of ancient stars and the indifferent turning of cosmic wheels, there lives a story as old as the first fires lit in caves — older, perhaps, than language itself, older than the myths we fashioned to explain our own suffering. It is not a story that announces itself with thunder or proclamation. It arrives in whispers: a subtle wrongness in a glance, a slight tilting of the world, a phrase spoken with just enough ambiguity to make you doubt your own comprehension. ...
Read more

The Total Pattern

Image
The Total Pattern A Literary Novella of Relational Architecture Preamble In the vast, echoing cathedral of human connection, certain patterns repeat with the quiet inevitability of tides drawn by an unseen moon. Not because they are chosen, but because they are structural—woven from the restless rivers of neurocognitive compulsion, the ancient stonework of attachment wounds, the flickering candlelight of affective tempests, and the fragile, mirrored scaffolding of a self that has never learned to stand alone. This is not a tale of villainy or redemption. It is a portrait of an archetype, rendered in the merciless, luminous light of literary truth. Here the creature is neither monster nor martyr in any simple sense; it is a living architecture: ADHD currents of novelty and hyperfocus colliding with avoidant foundations of distance, borderline markers of idealization and devaluation flickering against the low, constant music of anxiety and depression, histories of suicidal id...
Read more