Grief doesn’t scream anymore. It whispers. This is my love letter to the quiet ache, to the brother I still talk to in dreams, and to the fire of remembering when the world wants you to forget. I write, because it means I’m still here.

Grief didn’t take me all at once - it took me in tremors. This is the story of a voicemail, a vanished voice, and the invisible wound that still bleeds. I write from the aftershock, where love still echoes and goodbye is never really the end.

This silence is not absence, but ache - an echo with teeth, gnawing the edges of everything I used to be. I am the ghost and the haunted, the song and the static. And still, I write. Still, I listen for the music beneath the quiet - because somewhere in the stillness, I believe my soul is singing me home.