It feels like I am just counting down the columns until I work up the courage to write about you—the gap missing from my life, the light that’s never on: my sister. 

I know there are probably a million things I could say or metaphors I could make to properly explain how much I truly miss you, but truthfully, none of it feels like it will get the message across to the extent of which it’s true. I miss you. 

Before you left, I would never let anyone bring up your leaving to me because I didn’t want to accept it, but what I didn’t expect is that these feelings would carry over when you were gone. I hardly talk about it, and when someone tries to ask me if I miss you or how you’re doing, I answer the same every time. “She’s doing great,” I say. “She’s Julia; of course, she’s thriving.” Because I am scared that if I go into any more detail about how truly amazing you’re doing, I might just burst into tears. 

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t want you to be as happy as humanly possible; it’s just I wish I was more a part of that happiness. I wish my schedule and yours didn’t overlap as much. I wish I had more time to call you every single day. I wish I could relay every little detail of my life to you as I used to. 

I want so desperately to walk into your bedroom at 11:00 at night because I have a story to tell you or a problem I need your help solving, but when I walk into your room, it’s not because I know you’ll be there to greet me anymore—it’s probably because I need to grab something from the graveyard of things you left behind. 

And when I don’t need to go into your room, I leave the door closed because if it’s ever accidentally left open or the light is miraculously left on and I see it, for a split second my brain gets lost in the idea that your home—once again, right next door to me—but the second that moment is over, it hits me all over again that that’s not possible anymore. 

But it’s not just that. It’s everything. It’s the fact that when I make food for myself, Mom no longer tells me to text you and see if you want any. It’s the way that I now drive myself to school in the morning rather than you driving me. It’s how when my busy life finally allows for a family dinner, there is no one that sits next to me. 

It’s the feeling of people asking me what it feels like to be an only child now. An only child is something I will never be, and I am repulsed at the idea of people referring to me as one. Whoever thought it was okay to start calling the younger sibling that—even as a joke—clearly never had an older sister because it hurts. I am, and forever will be, the baby of the family with an older sister who takes care of me, whether your hours or minutes away. 

But despite the never-ending list of reasons why I am sad you’re gone, if you happen to read this, I want you to know that I am okay. On a day-to-day basis, my life is good, but it’s nowhere as good as it could be if you were here. I miss you.