I missed you quietly today. So quietly that no one noticed. I missed you as I climbed out of bed and as I brushed my teeth. When I waited at the lights on the drive to work and as I heard the rain outside my car. I missed you as I watched the windshield wipers hypnotically move left to right. I missed you as I went on lunch and as I kicked off my shoes when I got as home. As I switched off the lights and climbed into bed for the night. I missed you as I reached for the side of the bed where you once slept. I missed you without tears or noise or fanfare. But oh how I felt it. I felt it in the morning, at lunch, in the evening and at night. I felt it as I woke, as I waited, as I worked. I felt it at home, on the road, in the light, in the dark, in the rain. I felt it in every one of those moments, each one sitting heavier and heavier as the weight of me missing you kept growing. I missed you so quietly today but I felt it so loudly. I haven’t been the same since it ended.