There’s this chronic feeling of missing you.

It doesn’t spike or fade the way pain usually does. It’s just there, steady and low like a hum beneath everything I do. Some days I can almost trick myself into thinking I’m too busy to notice. But even then, in between breaths or the blink of an eye, you slip back in.

It’s strange how missing you has woven itself into my routines, my silence, even my laughter. I can smile, I can talk, I can move forward. But the part of me that aches for you stays still, untouched by time or distractions.

Losing both of you has carved something hollow inside me that nothing else has been able to fill. It’s not just about the big moments you’re missing, but the thousands of little ones too: the stories you would have told, the quiet reassurances, the warmth that only parents can give.

It’s like carrying a room inside me that’s forever half-lit, half-empty.

A quiet place where your memory waits without impatience, without anger; just there, softly reminding me of what I lost, what I long for, what still belongs to you.

I wonder if missing you is less about time and more about love refusing to forget.

I don’t think it ever really will.

I miss you Mama and Papa.

Longing,

ANA 💋