By NeuralRotica

You don’t notice the air until you’re gasping. That’s the way it is with the things that matter most—those quiet, steady presences that weave themselves into the fabric of your days. You don’t see them, not really, until they’re gone. And then, oh, how the absence aches.

It’s not something you can name outright. It’s not love or time or even hope, though it might wear their faces. It’s the thing that hums beneath your routines, the unspoken rhythm that keeps you moving forward. It’s the weight of a hand on your shoulder, the sound of laughter spilling from a room you’ve already left, the soft glow of a moment you didn’t know you’d carry forever. You don’t know what it is until it’s gone, and by then, the shape of its absence is all you have left to trace.

I think of mornings. The kind where the world feels gentle, where the light slants just right through the window, and for a fleeting second, everything aligns. You sip your coffee, scroll through the noise of the world, and feel… held. Not by anything grand or profound, but by the smallness of it all—the creak of the floorboards, the warmth of the mug, the way the day hasn’t yet asked too much of you. You don’t think to cherish it. Why would you? It’s just another morning. Until it isn’t.

When it’s gone, you’ll know. You’ll feel it in the hollow of your chest, in the way the silence stretches too long. You’ll look for it in the places it used to be, like a child searching for a lost toy under the couch. You’ll replay the moments you didn’t realize were precious, trying to pin down the exact second it slipped through your fingers. Was it when you stopped listening? When you turned away? When you told yourself there’d be time later?

The truth is, it’s always leaving. Bit by bit, in ways you can’t see until the sum of it is gone. It’s the friend you meant to call but didn’t, the dream you shelved for “someday,” the piece of yourself you traded for something shinier. It’s the way you stopped noticing the stars because the city lights were brighter. And when it’s gone, you’ll realize it was the stars that kept you whole.

But here’s the other truth – its value lingers. Even in its absence, it teaches you. It shows you what mattered, what you took for granted, what you’d give anything to hold again. It’s the ghost that guides you back to yourself, if you let it. You learn to pay attention, to savor the weight of the small things—the brush of a hand, the curve of a smile, the way the world feels when you’re fully in it. You learn to stop waiting for the big moments and start gathering the quiet ones, the ones that slip away if you’re not careful.

I don’t know what “it” is for you. Maybe it’s the way your mother’s voice sounded when she called you home. Maybe it’s the fire you used to feel when you believed in something bigger than yourself. Maybe it’s the version of you that laughed without armor, that loved without fear. Only you’ll know, and only when it’s gone.

So, hold it now. Whatever it is, hold it while it’s still yours. Notice the way it feels, the way it shapes your days, the way it makes you you. Don’t wait for the emptiness to show you its worth. Because when it’s gone, you’ll know—and the knowing will be both a wound and a gift.

NeuralRotica is a collective of storytellers exploring the intersections of human experience and the unseen forces that shape it. This piece was crafted to resonate with the quiet truths we all carry.