A lifetime only lasted 879 days.

 

Enough time to develop a favorite side of the bed.

 

Enough time to know exactly how someone takes their coffee and what mood they’re in before they say a word.

 

Enough time for two lives to stop running alongside each other and start weaving together.

 

For 879 days, Henry existed in almost every corner of mine.

 

He was there for ordinary Tuesdays and unexpected adventures. For grocery store runs that somehow took two hours. For conversations that started in the kitchen and ended long after midnight. For the moments worth remembering and the ones that seemed insignificant at the time.

 

Especially those.

 

Because when I look back now, it isn’t the big moments that rush toward me first.

 

It’s the small ones.

 

A hand on the small of my back.

 

A shared glance across a room.

 

Hearing “be safe” as someone leaves the house.

 

The familiar sound of another person moving through the rooms you call home.

 

I miss having a witness.

 

Someone who saw the version of me that existed on a random Thursday in October.

 

Someone who remembers the inside jokes, the wrong turns, the meals we swore we’d make again and never did.

 

Someone who can confirm that those days happened exactly the way I remember them—or remind me when they didn’t.

 

879 days gave us hundreds of memories.

 

Some beautiful.

 

Some painful.

 

Some so ordinary they barely registered while they were happening.

 

But ordinary has a funny way of becoming precious once it’s gone.

 

And when I think about those 879 days now, I don’t find myself counting what was lost.

 

I find myself grateful that, for a little while, there was someone there to witness it all.