The Strange Comfort of Not Missing Her

There are days when I sit quietly, with no messages lighting up my screen, no sudden memories tugging at my chest, and I realise something that feels almost… wrong.

I don’t really miss her.

It sounds cold. Detached. Almost unfair to what we once were—or whatever it was that existed between us. We were never in a relationship. There was never a label to hold on to. No definition to wrap our feelings in. Just moments—raw, unpolished, strangely intimate moments that stitched themselves into my everyday life.

And yet… I don’t really miss her.

Months pass. Seasons change. New routines form like fresh layers of dust on old shelves. We don’t talk anymore—not out of anger or distance, but out of something quieter, softer… something that feels like acceptance. And still, if someone asks me whether I miss her, I pause. I try to look inside myself for a void, for a pinch of longing, for an ache that goodbyes usually leave behind.

But the truth echoes, as unsettling as it is comforting:

I don’t really miss her.

I think it’s because she never actually left.

She lives in the in-betweens of my life—

in the way some conversations with strangers feel unexpectedly familiar,

in the thoughts that drift in when I’m half-awake,

in the self-talks I whisper during late-night walks,

in the small laughter that bursts out during a lonely ride,

in the quiet corners of random places where something reminds me of her without trying.

Someone says something in a tone she once used, and I smile.

A random song plays, and it feels like she’s humming it under her breath.

A streetlight flickers as I pass, and for a second, it feels like the world is trying to replay an old memory.

Maybe that’s why I don’t really miss her.

Because missing happens when someone is gone.

And she… she isn’t gone. Not really.

She shows up in invisible ways—

not as a person, but as a feeling.

Not as a presence, but as a gentle reminder.

Not as a memory, but as a quiet truth tucked between moments.

I don’t really miss her.

I feel her.

As strange as it sounds, she’s stitched into the background music of my days—never loud, never overwhelming, just quietly there, like a soft hum you only notice when the world goes silent.

And maybe this is what growing feels like:

not clinging, not running, not longing,

but simply acknowledging that some people leave footprints so light yet so lasting,

you never truly lose them.

So yes, I don’t really miss her.

But she walks with me anyway.