I shut the laptop.
Silence filled the house—the same house that, just days ago, still felt alive because he was in it.
Now it felt different.
Like something underneath everything had shifted.
I walked into the kitchen.
His mug was still there.
The one I painted for him as a kid—crooked flowers, uneven colors. He never stopped using it.
I picked it up, and my hands started shaking.
“Who were you… really?” I whispered.
Memories flooded in, uninvited.
Him sitting in the front row at every school event.
Him staying awake all night when I was sick.
Him fixing my veil on my wedding day, hands trembling, telling me my parents would be proud.
There was nothing fake about those moments.
Nothing.
And yet…
he never told me what really happened that night.
Every time I asked, he would shut down.
“It’s too painful,” he’d say.
And I believed him.
Because I loved him.
But now—
that silence felt different.
Not like grief.
Like something else.
Something heavier.
