Dog No calls, no laughter, just the quiet hum of time passing by.
The candles glow softly, carrying the ghosts of years gone and the ache of love that slipped away — while I still wish, quietly, to be noticed again. 🕯💔🐶
No calls come through tonight. No laughter spills across the room the way it used to, loud and careless and alive. There is only the quiet hum of time passing by, steady and unforgiving, like a clock that refuses to pause for memory or longing. I lie here listening, not to voices, but to the soft breath of the house itself — walls settling, air moving, moments drifting away unnoticed.
The candles glow softly, their flames small but stubborn, standing against the dark. Each flicker feels like a memory rising to the surface: birthdays once crowded with voices, hands reaching out without hesitation, love that felt permanent simply because it existed. The light carries the ghosts of years gone, shadows dancing where people used to be. I watch them move and wonder when exactly love learned how to leave without making a sound.
There is an ache that comes with remembering — not sharp, not sudden, but slow and heavy. It sits in the chest and spreads, reminding me of laughter that once filled every corner and now exists only in echoes. The ache is not just for what was lost, but for what was promised in silence: that being there would always be enough, that time wouldn’t change the way people see you.
Tonight, the candles don’t celebrate anything. They don’t mark a milestone or a wish made aloud. They simply burn, patient witnesses to a heart still hoping. I wish quietly, almost afraid to disturb the air, afraid that hope itself might be tired of being called upon. I wish to be noticed again — not loudly, not desperately — just enough to be remembered as someone who still matters.
Time passes anyway. It always does. The hum continues, steady and indifferent, as if to say that longing does not slow the world. But even in the quiet, there is something gentle: the fact that I am still here, still lighting candles, still capable of wishing.
Maybe that is what love leaves behind — not the people, not the noise, but the ability to feel deeply in the silence. And so I sit with the glow, with the ghosts, with the ache, and with this small, fragile hope. Even unnoticed, even unheard, I remain — waiting, wishing, and quietly believing that one day, the light will be seen again. 🕯
