Emptiness isn’t comfort. It’s just a space that doesn’t yet know what it’s for.
People rarely leave all at once.
They’re more like seasons, though even that isn’t quite right. They withdraw into small things you only notice later. A name you stop saying. A chair no one sits in. The Sunday lunch used to be loud.
For a while, the space they leave is only an absence.
You walk around it.
You pretend it isn’t there.
And then, slowly, it becomes something else.
Not a wound.
A room.
And one day, someone walks in. A friend you didn’t expect. Or a quiet that, it turns out, you’d been missing all along.
That’s when you realise the room wasn’t empty for no reason.
Everyone you lose makes room for someone you need.
Not as comfort.
As architecture.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Kadir Celep on Unsplash
