1 Year Without You

I wrote this on January 23, 2026. But I was too sad to acknowledge it.

Sixteen years with you felt like a lifetime I could count on.
Sixteen years of quiet understanding, of eyes that knew me better than most people ever will.
You grew old beside me, loving me so deeply it felt permanent.

And now, you are gone.

One year without you has stretched longer than all those years together.
Time used to move in simple things.
Happy butt, sloppy kisses, the certainty that I was never alone.
Now it moves in memories.

You weren’t just my dog.
You were my constant.
The one who stayed when the world changed, when words failed, when life hurt too much to explain.

You taught me that love doesn’t need language.
That loyalty can be quiet.
That presence alone can carry someone through.

I don’t look for you in places or habits.
I feel you in the absence itself
in how something essential is missing,
in how life feels different without you in it.

They say grief fades with time, but that isn’t true.
It doesn’t fade.
It deepens, and it becomes part of who we are.
Love like this doesn’t end. It just changes shape.

Sixteen years with you was a gift.
One year without you is a broken heart wrapped in screaming silence.

Rest easy, Jake.
You will forever be my best friend.