Every night, I convince myself that this will be the last time. The last time I’ll talk to you in my head as if you’re still here listening. The last time I’ll make up little conversations with you just to silence the loneliness. The last time I’ll replay your voice messages so sleep can finally find me. But somehow, night always returns. And so do you. You appear in the quiet moments when the world is asleep and my thoughts grow unbearably loud. I hear your laugh in memories, your voice in old recordings, and I speak to a version of you that only exists inside my mind, because it feels easier than accepting your absence. Your voice has become my favorite form of comfort. A lullaby I was never meant to depend on. A habit my heart refuses to break. And I keep wondering, how many more nights will pass before I stop reaching for you in the dark? How many nights before I can close my eyes without needing to imagine your presence beside me? How many mornings until I wake up and you are no longer the first thought on my mind? Because the hardest part of missing you is realizing that even in your absence, you still somehow help me sleep, while you remain the very reason I stay awake.