Happy birthday, they say,
smiles soft and candles bright—
the noise of cake and laughter
trying to fill the empty space.

But sometimes,
all I hear is the silence of you not being here.

I laugh, and in that sound,
I hear a shadow of your voice,
a ghost in the corners of my smile.
Photos catch me smiling like you—
a flicker of what once was—
but the truth is you’re not here.
You won’t ever be.

I’ve waited years for the ache to ease,
for the weight to lift,
but grief doesn’t fade like that.
It hides in quiet moments,
sneaks in between the jokes,
and sits at the table with me,
uninvited but always present.

I watch my friends post their Father’s Day love,
and I’m happy for them—truly.
But a part of me just wishes
I could have had that too.

No one talks about how hard it is
to pretend moving on means forgetting.
My thoughts aren’t always of you,
but I think of you every day—
wishing you were here to watch me blow out the candles,
to laugh through the bad Christmas movies,
to open presents and be present.

Why don’t we say how hard it is
to be happy on a ‘happy birthday,’
when part of you is still somewhere else—
somewhere I can’t reach?