There’s a special kind of silence that follows when a heartbeat you’ve known so well suddenly stops. It’s not just the absence of sound—it’s the absence of warmth, of paws padding across the floor, of the gentle nudge of a nose against your hand. Losing a pet isn’t like losing a piece of your heart; it’s like losing the thread that stitched it together in the first place. They were never *just* a pet—they were the keeper of your secrets, the witness to your tears, the quiet, unwavering presence that made the world feel less lonely. And now, the space they left behind isn’t just empty—it’s infinite. 
You find yourself reaching for them in the quiet moments, expecting to feel their weight beside you, only to remember they’re gone. And the pain? It doesn’t come in waves—it lingers, like a shadow you can’t outrun. Because how do you say goodbye to a love that never asked for anything but your time, your touch, your voice? 
Grief doesn’t care that they were “just an animal.” Grief knows the truth: they were your confidant, your joy, your home. And now, the world feels a little colder without them in it.