I looked for You in all the usual places.
In quiet rooms.
In late nights.
In that moment just before sleep
when people say You’re supposed to feel closest.
Nothing.
So I checked everywhere else.
In the glow of my phone at 3 a.m.,
scrolling past other people trying to make sense of things—
their grief, their questions, their small, bright distractions.
Still nothing.
They said You’re always there.
Closer than breath.
But some nights, even breathing feels like an effort
no one is helping you carry.
I said Your name once—out loud.
Not dramatic. Not holy.
Just… to see.
No answer.
And maybe that’s the hardest part—
not the silence itself,
but how everything keeps moving through it.
The world doesn’t pause.
People laugh.
Lights change.
Another day begins like nothing’s missing.
So here we are.
Still asking.
Still listening.
Still waiting—maybe.
Or maybe just learning how to live
in the quiet
where something used to be.
","author_name":"Michael Harding"}