Unseen Wounds

I shared a room with my brother. I would wake up in the dark, still half asleep, still reaching for what felt normal. For a split second I’d forget. I’d look for him. And then it would hit me all over again—he wasn’t there. He wouldn’t be there. And nothing about my world felt right anymore.

He was the only one who truly understood me. I didn’t have to explain myself to him. I didn’t have to pretend, or be strong, or find the right words. We would just sit together in silence, and somehow he knew exactly what I was feeling—and I knew he knew. No words. No effort. Just understanding.

That kind of connection doesn’t happen often in this world. And when you lose it, you don’t just lose a person—you lose the place where you were fully seen.

The first mornings without him were unbearable. I’d wake up with my heart already breaking, my body still expecting him to be there like he always was. The silence wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was loud. It reminded me that the one person who understood me without explanation was gone.

I keep replaying the small moments—the quiet ones. Sitting together. Breathing in the same space. Feeling safe without saying a word. Those moments didn’t seem big back then, but now I know they were everything.

In losing him, I learned what love really looks like. Love is waking up aching because someone mattered that deeply. Love is missing someone in ways that don’t make sense to anyone else. Love is realizing that the pain is only this strong because the connection was real.

He may be gone, but what we shared didn’t disappear. It lives in me. In the way I feel deeply. In the way I crave understanding. In the silence where I still feel him.

If you’ve lost someone who understood you like this, you’re not weak for hurting. You’re grieving because you were loved in a way that was rare and sacred.

Love doesn’t end when someone leaves.

It just changes form.

And sometimes, it hurts like hell.