Living In the Space We Shared
It wasn’t something I could do with Eric. After he died, I packed up my things and had everything else boxed and stored. Then I took off on a journey that lasted more than two years. I didn’t have the strength to stay in the same space we shared. Every wall, every room, every item breathed his memory back into me, and I could barely breathe at all. Leaving was the only way I knew to survive.
But this time, I told myself I wouldn’t run. I wouldn’t make sudden decisions I might regret later. I promised myself I’d sit still and let this grief settle where it needed to, even if that meant letting it take root in the place Greg and I built together. Somehow, I have to live in our apartment. The life we shared lives in its corners — the art he made, the kitchen he claimed as his own, the furniture we picked out together. I walk through each room and feel him there, but it’s not the same as before. It’s quieter. The echo of us lingers, and I’m learning to exist within it.
Everything outside continues on just as before — the city hums, people hurry past, and life keeps moving as though nothing has changed. Only now, I feel the distinct separation of what life was before and what it is now, for me, Odin, and Freija. We lost Dad. His presence is still felt every day, only now it’s just me. I have to take care of myself and them, all alone, and that is extremely difficult sometimes. The apartment is now quieter and less lively. Joy is something we haven’t experienced much of since he left. Sometimes the silence is deafening, and I think about running, but I know that road and I’m not ready to take it yet.
For now, I exist here -in the echo, in the in-between. Somewhere between what was and what will be. There’s a strange comfort in the stillness, even when it hurts. Sometimes I catch a flicker of him in the corner of my eye, a small reminder that love doesn’t disappear, it just changes shape. The echo isn’t just the sound of what’s gone; it’s the pulse of what remains. Maybe this is what surviving looks like right now. Learning to breathe in the quiet, to coexist with absence, and to trust that one day, the echo won’t only sound like loss.
Tell Me Something Good