I dunno, some nights it just hits different. Not in a gut-punch way, more like a dull ache behind the eyes, the kind you get when you’ve been staring at a screen too long and your brain just gives up. Like tonight. Heard the neighbour's dog start barking around two and it’s just… it’s the quiet after that gets me. Not like, deafening quiet, just… empty. The kind where you know you’re the only one breathing in this house, the only one hearing the fridge hum and the wind rattle the window. Last week I went out to see Old Man Henderson, the farmer, you know? He’s been a bit… off since his missus passed. Been a few months now, a heart thing. Anyway, I had to drop off some parts for his tractor, he still tries to fix everything himself, proper old school. He was just walking his fields, the way he always does, hands tucked in his pockets. The sun was going down, all orange and pink, the kind of sky you see on a postcard, right? And he just… stopped. Right in the middle of a row of what I think was corn, or something. Just stood there, looking out at nothing. He didn't even see me until I was practically on him. He jumped a bit, grunted, "Oh, it's you." I asked if everything was alright, you know, the usual small talk. He just looked at me, his eyes kinda faraway, like he was watching a movie playing in his head. He said, real soft, "Used to be, she’d be up by now. Kettle on. 'Morning, you old sod,' she’d say. Never called me by my name, not really." He kinda trailed off, looked at his hands, then back at the horizon. "Just… habit, I s’pose. Still wait for it." And then he just kept walking, like it was nothing, like he hadn't just laid out a whole life in five seconds. And it just… stuck with me. Like a burr under the saddle. Because I felt it too. Not the kettle, not the "morning, you old sod," but that… that *expectation*. That little hum in the back of your brain that someone else is there, someone who’s part of the fabric of your day. My ex, she’s not dead, obviously, just… gone. Moved in with her sister, kids split weekend custody. And sometimes, you know, it’s just me coming home and it’s… quiet. Too quiet. Like the air itself is holding its breath. And I catch myself, sometimes, reaching for my phone to tell her about something stupid at work, or the price of gas, or just… something. And then I remember. And the weight of that forgotten habit, it’s… it's heavy, innit? It’s not sadness, not really. Not the tear-jerking kind. More like a flat tire on a long road. You know you gotta change it, you know it’ll take time, but right now you’re just stranded, staring at the busted rubber and wondering if it was even worth the trip. And you just… exist. Paycheque to paycheque, trying to keep the kids fed, trying to keep the lights on. And then you see old Henderson, still waiting for that morning check-in, and you think, "Bloody hell, is that what it comes to?" And the answer, it feels like, is yeah. Probably. Probably just comes to waiting for something that ain't ever gonna happen again. And then you just keep walking your fields.