Something Left Me From Your Side

 

The room was filled with a soft, golden light as the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows over the floor. I sat in the chair by the window, my eyes fixed on the door, waiting. I’d been waiting for what felt like a lifetime. But deep down, I knew—what I was waiting for would never come back.

You used to sit there, right next to me, your presence a comforting weight in my world. We would talk for hours about nothing in particular, sometimes just sitting in silence, listening to the rain tap gently on the glass. I could always feel your warmth, even when we weren’t touching, like you were a part of me. 

But something changed. It wasn’t sudden, not a sharp break that could be pinpointed to a single moment. It was gradual, like watching a candle slowly burn down, the flame growing weaker, dimmer, until all that’s left is a flickering light struggling against the darkness. 

At first, I didn’t notice. Life carried on, days blending into weeks, and I thought everything was as it always had been. But then I started feeling it—a growing distance between us, something invisible but unmistakable, like the air itself had shifted. You were there, but not fully. Your mind wandered, your gaze far away even when your eyes met mine. 

I told myself it was just a phase, that things would go back to how they were. I held on to that hope, clinging to every smile, every laugh, trying to convince myself that nothing had changed. But the harder I tried, the further away you seemed to drift.

One evening, you were sitting across from me, your face lit by the soft glow of a lamp, the same way it had been countless times before. But this time was different. I could see it in your eyes—the weariness, the sadness, the distance. You opened your mouth to speak, and though the words didn’t come, I knew what you wanted to say.

Something had left us. Maybe it had been gone for a long time, and we just hadn’t noticed. Maybe we had both been pretending, hoping that if we ignored it, it would come back on its own. But it didn’t. And it wasn’t going to.

I couldn’t find the strength to say anything that night. I just sat there, staring at you, feeling the weight of the unspoken words between us. It was as if something had slipped through my fingers without me realizing it, like trying to hold water in your hands, only to watch it slowly drip away.

When you finally stood up and walked toward the door, I felt a knot tighten in my chest. I wanted to call out to you, to ask you to stay, to somehow fix what was broken. But the words stayed stuck in my throat. All I could do was watch as you disappeared through the doorway, your figure becoming smaller and smaller until it was gone completely.

I sat there for a long time after you left, listening to the silence that filled the room. It was so loud, the absence of your presence echoing in every corner, in every shadow. I felt it like a physical ache, this loss, this thing that had once been a part of us, of me.

You didn’t come back that night. Or the night after. Days turned into weeks, and though I still sat in that same chair by the window, still waited for the sound of the door opening, I knew that you weren’t coming back. Not really.

Because it wasn’t just you that had left. It was everything that we had shared, the laughter, the love, the quiet moments of understanding. It had slipped away, slowly but surely, until there was nothing left but memories.

I don’t know when it happened, when the thing that bound us together unraveled. Maybe it was always fragile, something we thought would last forever but wasn’t strong enough to withstand the weight of time. Or maybe we both just stopped trying, letting the days pass us by until there was nothing left to hold onto.

Now, when I look out of the window, I still see the world moving on, life continuing as if nothing has changed. But I know something has. Something has left me, something irreplaceable, something I’ll never fully understand. 

And every time I sit in that chair, I feel it—the emptiness that used to be filled with you. 

And it hurts. It hurts more than I ever thought it would.