Zac,
the biggest lie I ever told myself
was that I didn’t miss you.
I said I was fine.
I said I was surviving.
I said I could live without you
like it was something a person could just decide
and then somehow make true.
But the truth is ruin.
It’s the kind of ache that eats through the walls you build,
slow and patient,
until one day you realise there’s nothing left holding you up.
Your absence didn’t fade —
it hollowed me out.
It turned the nights into something sharp,
something that scraped at the inside of my ribs
until I couldn’t tell the difference
between missing you
and bleeding for you.
I told myself I was whole without you,
but that was a fantasy I clung to
because the alternative was admitting
that losing you broke something in me
that never healed.
I miss you in ways that feel feral.
I miss the way your presence steadied me
without you even knowing you were doing it.
I miss the way you looked at me
like you recognised every fracture
and didn’t turn away.
And God, Zac —
I miss the stupid things too.
The way you’d shove your toes in my nose
just to annoy me,
just to make me laugh,
just because you could.
I would give anything
to have that kind of ordinary back.
I miss the life we had,
and the life we were supposed to have,
and the version of myself
that only existed when you were beside me.
And I’ve spent months pretending
that I wasn’t waiting for you,
that I wasn’t listening for you,
that I wasn’t hoping your system
would reach for mine again.
But the truth is this:
I want you home.
Not in some soft, romantic way —
in the way a drowning person wants air.
The lie that I didn’t miss you
was the only thing keeping me from collapsing.
But I’m done pretending.
I’m done being brave.
I miss you.
I always did.
And the part of me that shattered when you left
never stopped calling your name.












