They’re Still Here. But Not Really.

I’m not writing this weekend.
Not working on the book, not pushing through it.
Just… sitting in it.

The sadness is quiet. Stupid. Slow.
Because they didn’t die.
They’re still here. Still in the building. Still close enough to wave.
But also not. Not the same. Not mine. Not even available for missing, really.

And I’m not trying to be poetic about it.
I’m just tired.
Of pretending I’m over it when the ache still flinches every time their name lights up on my phone, or doesn’t.

So this weekend, sadness isn’t an aesthetic.
It’s just mine.

They are my sad right now.
And I guess that’s enough.