An Open Letter to the One I Still Miss

Dear You,

It’s strange, isn’t it? Writing to someone who once shared every corner of my life, but now only lives in memories and moments I keep replaying in my mind. I don’t expect this letter to change anything. I’m not even sure you’ll ever read it. But the ache in my chest has nowhere else to go, so I’m letting it spill out the only way I know how.

I miss you. I miss us.

I miss our silly, little interactions at home: the nonsense banter, the playful teasing, the moments that made the ordinary feel extraordinary simply because you were in them.

I miss your random dirty jokes and those suggestive nods you’d throw my way, like a private joke only the two of us understood. I’d roll my eyes or groan dramatically, but still jump onto your lap and kiss you anyway.

I miss cooking your favorite bok choy, the way you’d compliment how it smells while I prepare the glaze, the way you’d give me a thumbs-up after taste-testing the sauce. You’d act like I performed a miracle with vegetables, and it made me feel so appreciated.

I miss making coffee for you, your iced coffee just the way you liked it. You’d light up every time I handed it to you, as if it was the highlight of your day. Maybe it was. I know it was mine.

I miss watching you wash the dishes after we eat. You looked ordinary, but looking at you made me imagine how extraordinary our future would be. I cook, you wash the dishes, we do the laundry together. It was a simple sight that made me smile with so much love.

I miss the way you’d flick my ears or tap my forehead when you thought I was doing something unhealthy: skipping meals, not drinking enough water, staying up too late. You looked out for me even when I didn’t think I needed it.

I miss your smile, that effortless, random burst of joy that could brighten an entire room and set my heart on fire.

I miss your singing at home—loud, spirited, full of emotions, ridiculous at times. But it was always filled with warmth. Your voice made our space feel like a home wrapped in music and love.

I miss playing Genshin Impact with you. You’d get so frustrated over puzzles you didn’t want to solve, rant about the game, then keep playing anyway. I used to watch you with such quiet affection, memorizing your every reaction, and just waiting for you to look at me and say, “Love, please do this for me.”

I miss the sound of your snoring—soft and steady—after a long, tiring day. It never bothered me one bit, and I grew to love it. It meant you were there, safe, close, real.

I miss walking into the room and finding you napping with the cats curled around you. That peaceful little moment felt like something sacred. Like love in its purest form.

I miss your kisses—gentle, lingering, full of intention. You kissed like you were saying I’m here, I love you, you matter.

I miss your hugs—those tight, warm embraces that made the world feel bearable again. No matter how chaotic everything was, your arms were my safest place.

I miss sleeping beside you, wrapped in your warmth. The way you’d pull me closer in your sleep, like your body didn’t want to let go, even when everything else did.

I miss your random “I love yous”—said without prompting, without ceremony. Just because you felt it. Just because it was true.

I miss what we were.
I miss what we could’ve been.
I miss what we should have been.

Some days I convince myself I’ve moved on. That I’m healing. And in some ways, I am. But then there are nights when it all comes rushing back—the ache, the silence, the empty space where you used to be. And I realize I’m still reaching out in the dark, hoping to find you there.

I don’t write this to win you back.
I’m writing this to honor the love that still lingers.
Because even if we never find our way to each other again . . .

I miss you dearly.
Still.
Always.

Yours, still and always,
Zenith