I still text my dad's phone when life gets tough.

My dad's phone number is still saved in my contacts.

I've never deleted it. I don't think I ever will.

At first it was an accident. After he died, the idea of ​​removing his name felt so final, like erasing evidence that he was ever here. So I let it go. His contact photo still shows him squinting into the sun, smiling like he didn't know how to take a serious picture.

The first time I texted his phone after he died, I didn't mean to.

I was having a bad day — the kind that feels heavier than it is. Nothing dramatic. Just life piling up in quiet ways. I opened my messages, tapped his name without thinking, and typed:

"I miss you."

My thumb hovered over the screen for a long time.

Then I sent.

The message didn't go through. Of course it didn't. But something about seeing him there - sitting under his name - made my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for.

I cried more than I had at the funeral.

After that, it became a habit.

Not a daily habit. Not even a weekly one. Just something I did when life felt too much and I didn't know where else to put the words.

Sometimes the messages are short.

"You'll laugh at this."

"I fixed the sink. You'd be proud."

"I wish you were here."

Other times, they're long. Messier is the kind of thing I used to say to him when I needed grounding.

When he was alive, my father was my calm. He had this way of listening without interrupting, without trying to fix everything right away. He would pause, clear his throat, and then say something simple that somehow made everything feel manageable again.

After he died, the world felt louder.

People talk about grief as if it’s a phase. As if it has a clear beginning and a clear end. As if one day you’ll wake up and it’s just… over.

That’s not how it works.

Grief is quieter than that. Sneaker. It’s in the aisles of the grocery store, in the old songs on the radio, in the jokes you almost text before you remember that there’s no one on the other end anymore.

My dad passed away suddenly.

A phone call. A moment where time splits into before and after.

In the weeks that followed, everyone checked in constantly. Friends. Family. Even people I hadn’t spoken to in years. They told me how sorry they were. They told me they were proud of me. They told me to be strong.

Eventually, the messages slowed down.

Life went on for everyone else.

Mine didn’t.

I quickly learned that losing a parent isn’t just about missing them. It’s about losing the version of yourself that existed when they were alive. The one I could always call home. The one who still had a safety net.

There are so many moments I wish I could share with him.

The job I almost quit.

The apartment I moved into.

Random Tuesday nights when loneliness creeps in for no apparent reason.

So I text him instead.

I know this might sound weird. Maybe even unhealthy for some people. But for me, it’s not about pretending he’s still alive.

It’s about recognizing that my relationship with him didn’t end when his heart stopped.

He just changed form.

There was a night not long ago when everything was falling apart. I sat on my bed, my phone glowing in the dark, and typed a message I never thought I’d send.

“I don’t know if I’m doing any of this.”

I stared at the screen for a long time before adding:

"I hope you're proud of me anyway."

I sent it.

Then I put my phone down and let myself cry in a way I don't do in front of other people. The ugly, shaking kind. The kind that drains something from you.

There was no response.

But somehow, I felt lighter.

Sometimes I imagine him reading the messages beyond all this. Nodding at my overthinking. Telling me I'm doing better than I thought.

Other times, I know it's just me. Allowing myself to feel. Missing him. Acknowledging that some days are still hard.

Grief doesn't mean you're stuck in the past.

It means the love didn't disappear when the person did.

I've learned that healing doesn't seem to be about forgetting. It feels like taking someone with you in a small, quiet way that only you understand.

To me, it feels like an unread text thread that just keeps growing.

And if you’re reading this and you’ve done something similar — kept voicemail, reread old messages, talked to someone who’s no longer physically here — you’re not weird.

You’re human.

We don’t stop needing the people who shaped us just because they’re gone.

Sometimes grief doesn’t scream.

Sometimes it just sends a message that’s never delivered — and somehow, still gets heard.