Not every presence leaves a trace.
There’s one in particular that moves silently, trespassing unseen, never asking to come in — because it has always been there, taking up nearly everything.
At first, I thought it came from certain silences or absences: maybe a quiet goodbye whispered without warning, a photo that wasn’t meant to be found, or a door that never quite closed.
But no. It wasn’t any of that.
Loneliness didn’t come for anyone. She was already here, even before emptiness had roots, before its tributaries had names.
She settled into every corner, stirred in the pause between one clumsy step and the next, in the nighttime chorus of crickets and frogs, or in the morning squabble of birds.
Some days, we blame the farewell for the pain, or the distance, or that old, damned song by a sentimental Cuban crooner that repeats what we refuse to say aloud.
But no — it’s not that either.
There are houses where loneliness resounds louder than an unfinished verse, where it presses in — so deep it reaches the blood.
Where everything reminds you that it’s not you who’s missing, but someone else, though you don’t know who.
And so you do what you can with what little sanity remains: you rearrange the silence, the words, the missteps and the few things you got right. You even leave space in the bed. You tell yourself tomorrow will be different.
But it never is. Because she’s still here. Because she never left.
And there’s no one left to blame. And that’s the saddest part.
This piece was originally published in Spanish. You can read the original version here.