I knew this day would come. But knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less.
She was more than just a pet. She was a family. My shadow, my constant, my quiet little comfort on days when the world felt too much. And now, she’s gone.
We fought for her. She fought even harder. We clung to hope, to prayers, to every little sign that she might pull through. But in the end, it wasn’t enough. All the love in the world couldn’t hold on to her forever. And the cruelest part of it all is realizing that no matter how hard we tried, no matter how much we wanted her to stay, there was nothing left to do but let go.
And now, home will never feel the same again.
I’m far away, chasing my own dreams, and this—this right here—was one of the scariest thoughts I had before leaving. I told myself I’d come back to her, that she’d be there, tail wagging, her little whimpers filling the house as if scolding me for being gone too long. I thought her whining at my feet would be one of the things to welcome me home.
Since I’m away, I could only talked to her through video calls, calling her name, hoping she could hear me, hoping she knew I was still there somehow. But did she? Did she understand? Or did my voice just sound like another distant noise she couldn’t place?
I don’t know. And maybe that’s what hurts the most.
Surely, I will miss everything about her. The way she grabbed my hand to scratch her neck and head. The way she cried when she wanted to sleep beside me but I forgot to open my bedroom door. The way she stared straight at me, waiting for me to share my food, or how she always—always—chose my husband over me. The growl she made when she refused to go outside. The way she watched the window, waiting for her favorite people to come home. Her barking at my nephews, standing her ground, making it clear this was her territory. The way she’d bring her favorite toy to us, nudging it into our hands when she wanted to play. The way she’d squeeze herself beside me, curling up so close, as if she knew I needed her warmth.
But now, the house would feel unbearably quiet. I can only imagine it. Her bed, untouched. Her favorite spot on the floor, waiting for a warmth that will never return.
I think of all the what-ifs. What if we caught it earlier? What if we tried something different? What if we had just a little more time? But the what-ifs don’t bring her back. They just sit heavy in my chest, another weight to carry in her absence.
People say it gets easier. That one day, the memories will bring more smiles than tears. But today is not that day. Today, it just hurts. And maybe tomorrow will too.
But if love could have saved her, she would have lived forever. And in some way, maybe she will—because love doesn’t leave. It lingers, in the empty spaces, in the quiet moments, in the empty spot on the bed where she used to lay.
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