When I feel the loss of you,
I feel so lonely.
What happened?
Why don't you see me?
What can I do?
Don't I matter anymore?
These are the quiet questions that echo inside me—not screamed but felt. A slow ache, not a sharp pain. It comes when I reach for you, and you don’t quite reach back. When our words skim the surface, but never touch. When I tell you something important, and your eyes don’t leave the screen.
It’s not just your phone. It’s not just the timing. It’s the space between us that suddenly feels wider.
And I don’t want to live in that space.
I know life pulls us in different directions. I know we each have pressures and distractions—screens that glow, deadlines that loom, moods that cloud. But I’m still here, hoping to be found in the noise.
I’m not asking for all your time. I’m asking for a moment—one that belongs to just us. A look that says I see you. A pause that says I care enough to listen. A shared breath that feels like home again.
Maybe I’m not alone in this. Maybe you’ve felt this too—with your partner, your child, your friend. The sense that you’re speaking across a canyon, not a couch.If any of this rings true for you, here’s my gentle nudge:
This post isn't about blame.
It’s about love.
It’s about remembering that we chose each other—and maybe, we still do.
I feel so lonely.
What happened?
Why don't you see me?
What can I do?
Don't I matter anymore?
These are the quiet questions that echo inside me—not screamed but felt. A slow ache, not a sharp pain. It comes when I reach for you, and you don’t quite reach back. When our words skim the surface, but never touch. When I tell you something important, and your eyes don’t leave the screen.
It’s not just your phone. It’s not just the timing. It’s the space between us that suddenly feels wider.
And I don’t want to live in that space.
I know life pulls us in different directions. I know we each have pressures and distractions—screens that glow, deadlines that loom, moods that cloud. But I’m still here, hoping to be found in the noise.
I’m not asking for all your time. I’m asking for a moment—one that belongs to just us. A look that says I see you. A pause that says I care enough to listen. A shared breath that feels like home again.
Maybe I’m not alone in this. Maybe you’ve felt this too—with your partner, your child, your friend. The sense that you’re speaking across a canyon, not a couch.If any of this rings true for you, here’s my gentle nudge:
- Start from the heart. “I miss us” goes further than “you’re always on your phone.”
- Create presence on purpose. A five-minute daily check-in. A phone-free dinner. A walk without earbuds. Rituals matter.
- Stay open, not accusatory. Ask, “When do you feel most connected to me?” Let the answers surprise you.
This post isn't about blame.
It’s about love.
It’s about remembering that we chose each other—and maybe, we still do.
RSS Feed
