There is a strange kind of silence that comes when someone you love is no longer in your life. It is not loud, not sudden. It just sits there, in the background of everything, changing how the world feels.
My father is not with me now.
I say that sentence, but it still does not feel real. It feels like something temporary, like he will walk back into my life at any moment and everything will return to how it was. But deep down, I know that is not how life works.
What hurts the most is not just his absence. It is the weight of all the moments that now exist only in my memory.
I keep going back to those evenings when we played cricket together. I can still see him standing there, watching me, correcting me, smiling in that quiet way he always did. Back then, it was just a game. Now, it feels like something sacred. I would give anything to hear his voice one more time, telling me I was out even when I insisted I was not.
I think about those mornings on his bike, on the way to school. I used to sit behind him without thinking, holding onto him like it was the most normal thing in the world. I never realized that those were moments of pure safety. Nothing could touch me as long as he was there.
And then there is the day he taught me how to drive. I remember being focused on the road, nervous about making mistakes. What I did not understand was that he was watching me grow up in front of him. That moment was not just about driving. It was about trust, about him slowly letting me take control of my own life.
I remember my first suit too. The one he bought for my school farewell. At that time, I cared about how I looked, how others would see me. I did not notice how he looked at me. If I close my eyes now, I can almost see it. The pride, the quiet emotion, the way he stood there without saying much, but saying everything at the same time.
There are so many moments like this. Small, ordinary, easily forgotten moments that now feel like pieces of something I can never get back.
That is what grief really is. It is not just missing a person. It is missing a thousand little things that came with them. Their voice, their presence, their way of making everything feel a little more stable.
Sometimes I find myself wishing for just one more day. Not to change anything. Just to sit with him, talk to him, play cricket again, or even just exist in the same space.
But life does not give that kind of second chance.
So all I can do now is hold onto these memories. To keep them alive in the only way I can. And maybe, in some way, live a life that would make him proud.
Because even though he is not here anymore, everything he gave me still is.
And maybe that is how he stays with me.