I Just Want You Back

I don’t want signs.
I don’t want strength.
I don’t want “they’re always with you.”
I don’t want to grow from this or find meaning in it.
I want you back.

I want to bury my face in your shirt and have it still smell like you.
I want to pick up the phone and hear your voice—alive, real, answering.
Not a recording. Not a memory. Not my imagination filling in the silence.

I want one more ordinary day.
Not a holiday.
Not some big moment.
Just a day—sitting and drinking coffee with you, laughing about nothing.

I want to stop lying when people ask how I’m doing.
I want to stop pretending this is something you “get through.”
I want to scream, “I’m not okay,” and have someone actually hear me.

I’m tired of people calling me strong.
I’m not strong.
I’m shattered.
I’m still breathing, but barely.
And that’s not strength—it’s survival.

So, no—I don’t want advice.
I don’t want timelines.
I don’t want, “You’d want me to be happy.”

I want you.
Back.
Here.
Breathing.
Laughing.
Still in this world.

But I don’t get that.

So instead, I carry this hollowed-out version of myself
And try to convince the world it’s a person.
When really—
It’s just someone who’s still loving you
In the silence where you used to be.