I miss the grocery aisle where you argued passionately about which tomatoes to buy.

I miss you; even the ordinary fact of you is tender today.

Valentine's has me missing your text at 3 a.m., short and half-joking.

I miss your backpack with the sticker of that band we barely know.

I miss you and the terrible coffee you make that you swear is ‘fine’.

I miss you; it's a simple sentence and it's true today.

I miss you in the quiet between songs on the radio.

I miss the small victory dance you do when your plant doesn't die.

I miss the half-written grocery list you tucked into your pocket and forgot.

I miss the way your keys jingle when you get home late.

I miss you; I'm not pretending to be brave about it.

On this day I miss you standing in the kitchen trying to flip pancakes.

I miss the playlist you made that got stuck on one song all week.

I'm missing you right now; it feels thick and obvious.

I miss watching you read and frown at the margins of your notebook.

I miss you enough to admit I checked your messages without asking.

I miss the crumb of toast you left on the counter and didn't notice.

Valentine's has me missing the small ridiculous things — your pen that always leaks.

I miss your voice saying my name wrong in that soft, teasing way.

Today makes me miss you more than the slow afternoons do.

I miss the smell of your shampoo on my pillow from yesterday.

I miss you, plain and stupid, the whole inconvenient feeling.

I miss sitting with you in the laundromat while our socks tumbled.

I miss the button on your coat I sewed back on last week.

I miss you — even the way you sigh when the bus jolts.

I miss your chipped mug from that tiny stall we found together this morning.

I was glad you asked me to stay a bit longer tonight.

Seeing your messy notes made me feel included in your day.

I keep replaying your thumbs‑up emoji and smiling at how thoughtful that was.

I want to say: I am proud of how you handled today.

I noticed you tied your shoelace for me without making it a thing.

You left your gloves on my doorstep and I liked carrying them upstairs.

I felt lighter after our short, honest argument; thank you for staying.

I like being the person you rant to about slow Wi‑Fi.

Your text with three dots made my whole afternoon better.

I wanted to tell you: today I relied on you and it felt safe.

I noticed you wiped the crumbs from the table and I noticed you.

I love that you always leave one fry on your plate for me.

You saying ‘I’m here’ at midnight was enough.

I felt warm when you handed me your scarf without saying why.