Missing Him, when Nothing Can Be Done
Microfiction exploring grief & loss
I hear her crying, but it’s slightly muffled by the wardrobe doors.
Initially, her sobs are loud and gasping, dragged from her body as painfully as the loss they express, but gradually, as she tires, they dwindle. Now she is hiccuping and blowing her nose, but then she starts to wail again.
“Why, why? It’s so unfair?” her distress is palpable and her well of tears seems endless.
I wish I could help, but what light can I shine in her darkest hours? What hope can I offer when the love of her life has been torn from the present and banished to the past; doomed to exist in her memory, consigned to the pile of ‘used to be’?
I cared for him too, in my way. I protected him and tried to keep him warm, but I wasn’t with him in the car that night. He chose another’s company when he drove to check on the horses. I couldn’t always be there, hanging round his neck, he needed to strike out without me sometimes.
Wait — her crying has reduced to sniffles. Now I hear footsteps, she’s moving about the flat. The thud of the fridge door, and the clatter of china is followed by the ‘peep’ of the microwave. Good, she’s eating something, she is taking care of herself.
I wonder what fills the silence that follows; is she staring into space? Has she fallen asleep? Perhaps she is scrolling through pictures of him on her phone. Who wouldn’t want to look at his handsome face as a way of clinging to time spent in his company? He was kind and funny and he made her feel safe; I heard her say it often enough.
“You complete me,” she used to tell him.
“And you make me a better person,” he would reply.
Then they’d call each other cutesy names and the kissing and petting would start. She will miss that. No more warm legs to rub her cold feet against, nor strong arms to pull her close.
I will miss those arms too—they made me feel wanted, needed, and useful. I was nearly as proud of his physique as he was; if he looked good so did I.
What’s happening now? Light comes flooding into the dark where I am. Lamplight illuminates her face, blotchy and puffy from crying. Her hair is a fright, not its usual groomed style, a scrunchy pulls it into a topknot, but I don’t judge her.
She reaches up for me. I am eager for her touch, but am confused, as she’s never shown interest in me before. She pulls me down, off the hanger, slides her arms into my sleeves, then shrugs, drawing my collar around her neck.
She dips her chin, and I guess she is smelling for traces of his aftershave that might cling to my fibres.
“Oh Dan,” her voice is laden with longing. “I miss you so much. How am I going to cope without you?”
Then she climbs onto the bed, wrapping herself in the bulk of me. I’m outsized, reaching past her hips, but I try to hug her like Dan would. Eventually she closes her eyes and falls asleep.
© Posy Churchgate 2026, All rights reserved
This short piece originally appeared on Tantalizing Tales, 1 of Cocktail Club Publications. The prompt was to write from the PoV of an object.
The loss in this story is so palpable. You had me fooled, making me think there was another woman overhearing her grief.
the loud and gasping sobs--i know them too Posy.