Nothing Remains

You died. And nothing happened. No whisper. No light. No shift in the air. Only the room— exactly as it was, minus you. I stood there, expecting something. A crack in the fabric. A sign. A sound. Anything. But all I found was stillness carrying on without effort, without care. They spoke your name as if it held weight. But even that faded before the echo could finish. No afterlife. No message. No you. Just a body emptied and a silence that doesn’t remember what it’s missing. Grief isn’t proof of love. It’s the body glitching, trying to react to an absence too complete to comprehend. You are gone. And the world never noticed. And soon, so will I. So will all of us. Forgotten, unmarked, folded back into nothing. Exactly where we came from.