I miss waking up to your notifications and then realizing it's you.

I miss your forehead on my shoulder when we watch the news.

I miss you more when I pass the bench where you kissed me.

I miss the small apology texts you send after you curse at traffic.

I miss learning a new bad habit every week because of you.

I miss the way you make cereal and forget to add milk sometimes.

I miss your half-finished sentences that I can finish for you.

I miss you in the middle of a joke that only we laugh at.

I miss the way you answer the door with your hair still messy.

I miss pressing my phone to my ear and hearing you breathe.

I miss the creak you make on the steps when you come home.

I miss you more at 3 a.m. when the house is quiet.

I forgive you for the small things that kept piling up between us.

I am tired of pretending I'm okay, so I'm telling you: I'm not.

I saved the receipt from the camera shop where you fixed the strap.

Don't drive too fast today; I can't stand picturing you on that road.

I kept your playlist on shuffle so I can hear you in short bursts.

Take the houseplant that keeps surviving my lack of water — it needs you more.

I will remember your shoelace knot because it's how you tie every morning.

I'm sorry for the nights I woke you to ask small stupid questions.

I tucked the spare chargers together in the pouch with the stickers.

I wrapped your headphones in the drawer so they won't fray in transit.

I left a note in your wallet by the receipt for the burger place.

Hold the dented travel mug I gave you until you don't want it anymore.

I can't promise tomorrow, but tonight I will try to sleep without calling.

I will miss smoking on the balcony with you and your crooked lighter.

I'm sorry I snapped this morning, I wish I'd been calmer before you left.

I miss the way you say my name when you're joking.

I miss you even when you take forever to get ready.

I miss the quiet hum of your shower in the morning.

I miss the tiny grooves your keys make on the table.

I miss your mess on the desk that somehow always has the pen I need.

I miss arguing with you over which lightbulb to buy.

I miss your playlist playing in the kitchen.

I miss hearing about the small things that happened to you.

I miss you sitting on the other end of the couch.

I miss the way you leave crumbs on the counter and then blame the cat.

I miss the dent your head makes on my shoulder.

I miss having someone to complain about traffic with.

I miss your voice saying my name in the morning.